The 


HAP 
YEAR 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Phoebe  and  Ernest 

^With  30  illustrations  by 
R.  F.  Schabelitz 

$1.40  net 

Parents  will  recognize  themselves  in  the 
story,  and  laugh  understandingly  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Martin  and  their  children,  Phoebe 
and  Ernest. 

Phoebe,  Ernest,  and  Cupid 

Illustrations  by  R.  F.  Schabelits 

$1.40  net 

In  this  sequel  each  of  these  delightful 
young  folk  goes  to  the  altar. 

The  Ollivant  Orphans ! 

With  frontispiece  by  Flagg 

$1.40  net 

This  book  is  most  like  "  Phoebe  and 
Ernest."  It  tells  of  two  years  in  the  life 
of  six  young  men  and  maidens  of  to-day — 
full  of  the  spirit  of  youth,  its  pluck,  its 
foolishness,  and  its  happiness. 

Janey 
Illustrated  by  Ada  C.  Williamson 

$1.25  net 

"  Being  the  record  of  a  short  interval  in 
the  journey  thru  life  and  the  struggle  with 
society  of  a  little  girl  of  nine." 


THE  HAPPY  YEARS 


BY 


INEZ  HAYNES  IRWIN 

Author  of  "Phoebe  and  Ernest,"  "  Phoebe,  Ernest, 
and  Cupid,"  etc. 


ILLUSTLATIONS  BY 

R.  M.  CROSBY,  GAYLE  PORTER  HOSKINS, 
AND  HARVEY  DUNN 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY    HOLT   AND    COMPANY 
1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1916. 1917. 1918.  BY 
THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1919.  BY 
THE  McCALL  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


BOOK      MANUFACTURERS 
R  A  H  W  A  Y  N  E!W     JERSEY 


TO 

POLLY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.  IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW       ...         3 

II.  PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE      .       39 

III.  SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  .....       79 

IV.  THE  LONG  CARRY      .       .       .       .121 
V.  THE  NEST  EGG  .        ,       .       .        .     142 

VI.  THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  CLAUS    .       .167 

VII.  THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET    .     193 

VIII.  THE  VAMP  ......     228 

IX.  PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON    .       .     254 

X.  How  IT  CAME    .       ;.;       .       ...       .     287 


ILLUSTRATIONS 
"Sister,  Gaze  on  Our  Father  I"   .         Frontispiece 

PAGE 

"Now,    Mrs.   Warburton!      Don't  You   Be 

Making  Any  Apologies "        ...  65 

"  What  a  Racket  Those  People  Are  Making !  "  189 

"  What  Does  She  Look  Like  ?  "                    t.  196 


THE  HAPPY  YEARS 


CHAPTER  I 
IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW 

"A  H,  here  you  are,  Ern!"  Phoebe  Warburton 
jL\.  exclaimed  in  a  relieved  tone  as  she  dropped 
into  the  seat  beside  her  brother  on  the  five  o'clock 
express.  "  I  was  afraid  you'd  taken  the  four- 
twenty-seven,  and  there's  something  I  want  to  talk 
over  with  you.  About  half  Maywood  takes  this 
car,  don't  they?  Goodness  what  a  warm  day  this 
has  been !  October  fools  me  regularly  every  year. 
.  .  .  Oh,  good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Hunt.  How's 
little  Ellie?  That's  good.  .  .  .  Cold  spells  early 
in  the  month !  Haul  out  the  children's  winter  coats, 
mufflers,  leggings,  gloves,  and  then  about  the  middle 
it  goes  back  to  summer  again.  Take  off  all  the 
winter  things,  and  every  blessed  one  of  them  gets 
cold.  I've  been  in  town  this  whole  livelong  day. 
I  never  was  so  tired  in  my  life — or  so  hot — and  I 
must  be  a  perfect  sight!  " 

"  Look  all  right  to  me,"  Ernest  said,  surveying 
her  with  the  calm  of  brothers. 

Phoebe  Warburton — she  had  been  Phoebe  Mar- 
tin and  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  Maywood — had 

3 


4<(\  :  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

grown  from  that  pretty  girl  to  a  handsome  woman. 
She  was  in  the  middle  thirties  now,  but  she  did  not 
look  it;  for  much  of  her  girlhood  lingered  in  her. 
Child-bearing  had  filled  out  the  willowy  wand  that 
had  been  her  figure,  but  it  had  not  diminished  its  sup- 
pleness and  erectness.  Maturity  had  rounded  out 
the  girlish  peak  that  had  been  her  face,  but  it  had 
not  solidified  or  dulled  it.  As  ever  the  vivacity  of 
her  body  showed  itself  in  the  quickness  and  sure- 
ness  of  her  motions.  As  ever  the  fluidity  of  her 
spirits  displayed  itself  in  the  extravagance  and  fer- 
vor of  her  expressions.  And  as  ever  the  warmth  of 
her  sympathy  expressed  itself  in  an  immediate  re- 
sponse to  the  nearest  mood  and  atmosphere.  En- 
ergy splashed  from  her;  vitality  sparkled  in  her;  her 
face  was  lustrous  with  happiness.  Yet  sometimes  a 
thought  that  pierced  all  this,  brought  a  change  of 
expression  to  her  eyes — a  look  wistful  and  poignant 
— as  though  continually  she  asked  a  question  that 
Fate  continually  refused  to  answer. 

Now,  Phoebe's  face  glowed  with  a  depth  of  color 
that  had  for  the  time  become  almost  plum-like  in 
tint.  A  faint  pearly  dew  studded  her  brow  and  up- 
per lip.  Nevertheless,  she  maintained  her  charac- 
teristic sartorial  trimness.  Veil,  gloves,  shoes  re- 
mained crisp.  The  thick  waves  of  her  golden-brown 
hair  still  stayed  where  she  had  placed  them  that 
morning.  Every  line  of  her  plain  tailored  suit 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  5 

seemed  to  emphasize  the  virility  of  her  figure.    She 
carried  a  shining  black  traveling  bag. 

"  What  you  been  doing  all  day,  Phoebe?  "  Ernest 
asked. 

"If  you  will  believe  it — Christmas  shopping! 
I've  always  said  I'd  do  it  sometime,  and  this  year 
I'm  making  good  on  my  resolution.  .  .  .  How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  Pebworth!  Yes,  the  candlesticks 
are  lovely !  Thank  you  so  much  for  letting  us  know 
about  them.  .  .  .  I've  registered  a  solemn  vow  to 
take  Christmas  by  the  forelock.  I've  cleaned  out 
all  the  drawers  in  Aunt  Mary's  maple  highboy. 
IVe  bought  brown  paper  and  white  paper  and  tissue 
paper  and  red  ribbons  and  green  ribbons  and  every- 
thing but  Christmas  tags  and  seals — they  aren't  on 
sale  yet — and  I've  made  a  solemn  vow  to  myself 
that  by  the  first  of  December  every  gift  will  be 
bought,  done  up,  tagged,  and  packed  away  in  the 
highboy." 

Ernest  laughed.  "  Sounds  like  a  fairy  tale.  Of 
course,  like  all  men,  I  hate  Christmas!  I'm  with 
that  man  who  wants  to  start  a  Scrooge  Club.  I'd  like 
to  be  president  of  it.  I'm  glad  to  think  that  this 
year  there'll  be  one  woman  not  running  around  for 
the  last  three  days  before  Christmas  like  a  hen  with 
her  head  cut  off,  and  ready  to  go  into  a  sanitarium 
the  morning  of  the  twenty-sixth.  Are  you  enjoying 
it?" 


6  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"I  loathe  it!"  answered  Phoebe.  "Of  course, 
it's  unphilanthropic  and  uncivil  and  unsocial  and 
unevery thing,  but  I  must  admit  that  I  perfectly  adore 
the  Christmas  rush.  .  .  .  Oh,  hullo,  Mary — say, 
are  you  ever  coming  to  committee  meeting  again? 
Well,  see  that  you  do.  ...  I  love  to  run  around 
in  the  stores  with  crowds  and  crowds  and  crowds 
of  other  people,  all  just  as  excited  as  I  am.  Every- 
thing always  seems  Christmas-sy  and  gay  to  me.  I 
don't  care  how  skimpy  the  shop  Christmas-tree  dqco- 
rations  are,  or  how  unconvincing-looking  the  shop 
Santa  Clauses  or  how  artificial  the  shop  holly  and 
mistletoe!  I  just  love  it.  And  if  the  weather  is 
good,  with  snow  on  the  ground  and  lots  of  sun- 
shine, I  feel  as  if  I  should  skip  and  leap  just  as  I 
did  when  I  was  a  child.  I  know  I  shall  miss  it  like 
the  very  dickens  this  December — staying  at  home 
with  my  hands  folded.  I'll  feel  as  though  some- 
body's died  and  it's  the  day  after  the  funeral." 

'Then  what  are  you  doing  it  for?"  Ernest  de- 
manded with  an  amused  smile. 

"  Oh,  I'm  just  obeying  the  Christmas  order 
*  Shop  Early.'  I'm  doing  it  out  of  pity  for  the  over- 
worked store-girls.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  they 
don't  enjoy  it,  too — I  mean  the  sense  of  rush  and  go 
and  excitement.  Oh,  of  course,  I  know  they  don't. 
They  can't.  They  must  be  ready  to  drop  with  ex- 
haustion, and  yet,  I'm  not  sure  that  they  want  it 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  7 

to  be  as  calm  at  the  Christmas  season  as  any  other. 
.  .  .  Good  afternoon,  Phil.  Yes,  come  up  any 
time.  Now  run  along,  I  want  to  talk  with  Ern." 

"  Oh  yes,  what  was  it  you  wanted  to  talk  over?  " 
Ernest  inquired. 

"About  father  and  mother,"  Phoebe  answered. 
"  Thank  goodness,  the  train's  started.  Nobody'll 
interrupt  us  now.  Isn't  it  funny  how  irritating  it 
is  to  sit  in  a  train  if  you're  waiting  for  it  to  start 
and  how  uncomfortable  you  get  if  it  stops  and  stands 
unexpectedly  anywhere?  Yes,  I've  been  thinking  a 
lot  about  father  and  mother  lately,  and  do  you  know, 
Ern,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I've  had  the  feeling 
that  they  were  getting  old." 

"Old!"  Ernest  repeated.  "Old!  Nonsense! 
I  can't  think  of  father  and  mother  as  old,  somehow. 
I  never  shall,  I  suppose." 

"I  never  have  before,"  Phoebe  said.  "But 
somehow  in  the  last  few  months  there's  been  a  dif- 
ference. Mother  doesn't  seem  to  interest  herself 
in  anything  any  more.  Oh,  of  course,  she's  crazy 
about  our  children,  but  .  .  .  Oh,  how  do  you  do, 
Mr.  Morton!  How's  Mrs.  Morton?  That's  nice. 
.  .  .  And  of  course,  father  always  falls  into  the 
pace  that  mother  sets.  He  always  has.  I  shouldn't 
say  pace  now — it's  a  rut.  I  do  wish  we  could  get 
them  out  of  it,  Ern — mother'll  take  orders  from 
you  like  a  lamb.  I've  tried,  in  a  way,  but  you 


8  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

know  mother  will  never  come  to  the  dinner  parties 
Tug  and  I  give.  She  says  she  doesn't  enjoy  being 
with  a  crowd  so  much  younger  than  herself.  And  I 
can't  seem  to  get  her  to  go  to  the  Woman's  Club. 
The  women  there  who  are  most  interested,  Mrs. 
Hunt  and  Mrs.  Richards,  scold  me  all  the  time  for 
not  bringing  her  oftener;  but  she's  the  hardest  per- 
son in  the  world  to  pry  out  of  her  regular  habits." 

"  Yes,"  Ernest  agreed.  "  I've  always  realized 
that  of  course,  but  I  don't  think  I've  noticed  any 
special  difference  in  her  lately." 

1  There    is,    just   the    same,"    Phoebe    insisted. 

'  There's   something  gone — I   don't  know   exactly 

what  it  is.     Yes,  I  do,  too.     I  guess  we've  got  to 

reconcile  ourselves  to  the  fact  that  they're  getting 

along.    Middle-age  has  gone  and  old-age  is  coming." 

Ernest  looked  out  of  the  window  a  moment,  and 
for  that  moment  a  shade  of  deep  reflection  wiped 
out  what  boyish  values  still  lingered  in  his  face. 
He  was  as  handsome  as  his  sister,  though  in  another 
type.  Big-figured,  blue-eyed,  and  black-haired; 
personality,  flamboyant  but  tempered,  glowed  back 
of  his  comeliness.  Maturity  had  subdued  him  from 
a  colorful  adolescence  by  lining  him  a  little,  but  the 
lines  had  only  added  a  shadowing  subtlety.  Like 
Phoebe,  he  possessed  an  instinctive  sartorial  smart- 
ness which  seemed  never  to  permit  his  clothes  to 
look  old  or  shabby.  Unlike  her,  an  underlying  seri- 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  9 

ousness  often  broke  through  his  debonair  expres- 
sion, creased  lines  on  the  freshness  of  his  coloring. 

"  I  haven't  thought  of  mother  as  growing  old  at 
all,"  he  said  at  last.  "  A  man  doesn't  notice  what 
a  woman's  doing.  But  now  you  speak  of  it,  I  recall 
something  father  said  the  other  day.  Toland  and 
the  twins  ran  to  meet  us  as  we  came  up  the  street. 
We  hadn't  been  talking  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
suddenly  father  broke  out  as  though  he  were  answer- 
ing some  argument  he'd  raised  in  his  own  mind. 
*  It's  those  little  shavers  that  are  pushing  me  into 
the  easy-chair  by  the  fire,'  he  said,  *  I  don't  know 
as  I  want  to  go,  but  they  insist  on  it.'  He  said  that 
as  though  it  had  just  struck  him — it  had  nothing  to 
do  with  what  we'd  been  talking  about.  Well,  even 
if  they  are  old,  it  isn't  such  a  terrible  tragedy, 
Phoebe.  It's  the  way  of  all  flesh.  It's  the  natural 
development  of  life.  Old-age  can't  be  averted  or 
avoided,  if  you  live  long  enough.  Why  not  look  it 
square  in  the  face,  admit  it,  and  make  the  best  of 
it?" 

"  I  suppose  you're  right."  Phoebe  emitted  a  sigh 
that  was  half  reluctance  and  half  impatience. 
"  Only  it  does  seem  to  me  that  they're  not  old  enough 
yet  to  be  old.  And  there  are  some  things  that  break 
my  heart.  For  instance — mother  was  never  very 
crazy  about  clothes,  but  now  her  complete  indiffer- 
ence   Why,  I  don't  know  when  she's  had  any- 


io  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

thing  new,  and  of  course  she  can  have  anything  she 
wants.  If  they'd  only  get  out  evenings,  and  go  to 
something — anything — I  don't  care  what.  But 
night  after  night,  they  just  sit  and  read  and  nap  and 
talk  a  little  and  then  go  to  bed.  Yes,  I  suppose  I've 
got  to  reconcile  myself  to  it.  They're  old.  My 
father  and  mother  are  old.  Well,  let's  make  a  com- 
pact, Ern.  We  won't  ever  mention  it  to  anybody 
else  and  we'll  never  let  them  suspect  that  we  know  it, 
never,  never,  never." 

"  You're  on,"  approved  Ernest. 

Phoebe  stopped  at  her  mother's  house  on  the  way 
from  the  train.  Coming  unexpectedly,  as  she  did, 
into  the  living-room,  she  found  Mrs.  Martin  seated 
alone,  looking  vacantly  out  the  window  into  a 
vista  of  twilight  so  pale  that,  in  it,  the  street  lamps 
made  blobs  of  yellow  color  rather  than  golden  light. 
"What  are  you  mooning  about,  mother?"  Phoebe 
demanded  briskly.  "  I  hope  the  children  haven't 
worn  you  out." 

"  No,  they  never  wear  me  out,"  Mrs.  Martin  an- 
swered. "  They're  always  quiet.  I've  had  such  a 
nice  day  with  them." 

"Was  Edward  good?" 

"  As  good  as  gold !  I  think  he's  the  best  baby 
you've  ever  had,  Phoebe." 

"  You've  said  that  about  every  one  of  them  except 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  n 

the  first,"  Phoebe  accused  her  mother.  "  He  may 
not  be  the  best  behaved,  but  he  certainly  is  the  best 
looking.  If  I  do  say  it  as  shouldn't,  he's  the 
swellest" — Phoebe  smiled  at  this  verbal  reminis- 
cence of  her  girlhood — "  youngster  in  this  town." 

"  You  ought  to  have  a  miniature  painted  of  him," 
Mrs.  Martin  said.  "  Those  curls — and  those  great 
gray  eyes  and  such  red  lips !  " 

"  I'd  like  to  see  Tug  Warburton's  face,"  Phoebe 
declared,  "  if  I  should  propose  to  him  having  his 
son's  picture  painted.  If  it  were  Bertha-Eliza- 
beth   Or  Phoebe-Girl Have  the  children 

been  gone  long?" 

"  Only  a  few  minutes,"  Mrs.  Martin  replied. 
"  And  I  miss  them  already.  You  don't  know  how 
I  love  to  hear  children's  voices  in  the  house.  It 
brings  back  those  early  days  when  your  father  and 
I  first  took  it.  You  know  it  was  I  made  your  father 
buy  this  place.  He  didn't  feel  we  could  afford  it. 
I  was  sure  we  could  carry  it.  But  after  we'd  signed 
the  papers  I  got  an  awful  scare.  It  seemed  such  a 
terrible  debt  that  we  were  shouldering.  I  was  afraid 
then  that  we  never  could  pay  it  off!  But  the  in- 
stant we  got  here  and  I  had  all  these  nice  airy  rooms 
and  that  great  big  kitchen  to  work  in  and  you  chil- 
dren that  lovely  yard  for  your  play — I  never  had 
another  instant  of  doubt  but  that  I'd  done  the  right 
thing.  I  brought  you  children  up  in  this  house  and 


12  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

it  doesn't  seem  quite  natural  not  to  have  children 
here.  If  I  had  known  you  were  coming  home  on 
this  train  I'd  have  kept  them  until  you  got  here." 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't,"  Phoebe  declared. 
'  They'll  be  all  washed  up  and  tidy  when  I  get  home. 
Besides,  once  in  a  while,  mother,  I  like  to  have  a 
little  talk  with  you  when  they're  not  about." 

"Did  you  get  all  your  shopping  done?"  Mrs. 
Martin  asked. 

4  Yes,  as  much  as  I  could  do  in  one  day,"  Phoebe 
answered.  "  How  do  you  feel,  mother?  You  look 
a  little  tired." 

"Yes,  I  do  feel  a  little  tired."  Mrs.  Martin's 
eyes  wandered  to  the  garden  with  its  shrunken,  shriv- 
eled flower  beds;  then  to  where  the  trim  suburban 
houses  across  the  street  stood  in  line;  above  to  the 
twilight  sky  where  a  crescent  moon  rocked;  beyond 
into  infinity.  Then  abruptly  her  look  came  back  to 
her  daughter's  face.  "  Do  you  know,  Phoebe,  lately 
I've  had  the  queerest  feeling.  I  don't  know  exactly 
how  to  describe  it.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  to 
make  of  it,  but  it's  as  though  life  were  slowing  up 
a  little.  I  suppose  it's  all  perfectly  natural  when 
you  stop  to  think  of  it.  Before  you  children  were 
married  and  were  living  at  home,  this  place  was 
full  of  activity.  Of  course,  I  was  the  head  of  the 
house  and  everything  that  came  up  was  referred  to 
me  and  I  had  to  settle  it.  Seems  to  me,  as  I  look  back 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  13 

upon  it  now,  there  was  a  new  question  and  a  new 
problem  and  a  new  responsibility  every  single  day. 
Then  you  both  got  married  and  started  homes  of 
your  own,  your  children  came  along  and  instead  of 
being  mother  I  was  grandmother.  There's  a  great 
deal  of  difference  between  being  grandmother  and 
being  mother.  Not  that  I  don't  like  being  grand- 
mother; I  do.  I  enjoy  it  a  great  deal.  I'm  proud 
of  it,  but  I  have  a  queer  feeling  as  though  all  re- 
sponsibility had  been  taken  from  me.  Delia  and 
Mary  have  been  with  me  so  long  that  they  know  my 
ways  perfectly.  I  hardly  have  to  give  them  orders 
any  more.  No  machine  could  run  any  better  than 
this  household  does.  I  feel  that  I  haven't  any  real 
work  to  do — I  mean  work  that  depends  absolutely 
on  me.  I  haven't  the  feeling  I  had  when  I  was 
bringing  you  two  children  up.  Of  course,  I  have  a 
certain  sense  of  responsibility  in  regard  to  my 
grandchildren,  but  it  isn't  a  real  responsibility. 
They're  a  great  pleasure.  I  enjoy  them  in  a  way 
that  I  couldn't  enjoy  you,  because  I  always  had  to 
train  you,  to  see  that  you  got  the  right  habits 
and  the  right  point  of  view  on  things.  But  I  don't 
feel  that  way  about  them.  Why,  Phoebe," — Mrs. 
Martin  looked  at  her  daughter  as  though  she  ex- 
pected to  horrify  her  with  the  revelation  she  was 
about  to  make — "  often  when  they  do  the  naughtiest 
things,  I  don't  pay  any  attention  to  them  at  all.  It's 


THE  HAPPY  YEARS 


such  a  joy  to  think  that  I  haven't  got  to  scold  or 
punish  them.     I  just  let  it  go  by.     I  pretend  not  to 


see  it." 


"  I  don't  know,  mother,  but  what  you've  discov- 
ered a  great  principle  of  child-training,"  Phoebe 
said  after  an  instant  of  reflection. 

Mrs.  Martin  received  this  apathetically.  "  But 
in  the  last  few  days,"  she  went  on,  recurring  to  her 
former  train  of  thought,  "  I've  been  thinking  about 
this  queer  listless  feeling,  and  suddenly  it  came  over 
me  what  it  might  be,  Phoebe.  It's  old-age.  It 
took  me  a'  long  time  to  understand  it,  but  perhaps 
that's  what  it  is.  Old-age!  Phoebe,  is  that  it?  Is 
your  mother  old?  "  She  stopped  and  looked  a  little 
helplessly  at  her  daughter. 

Phoebe's  gray  eyes  filled  with  swift  tears,  and 
after  a  while,  though  more  slowly,  her  mother's  eyes 
filled,  too. 

"  Old !  "  Phoebe  lied  indignantly.  "  Old !  Non- 
sense !  You're  not  old,  mother.  You  never  could 
be  old." 

That  night  after  dinner,  just  as  his  father  was 
establishing  himself  in  the  big  Morris  chair  by  the 
big  center  table,  Ernest  strolled  into  the  living-room. 

"  Oh,  Ernie !  "  His  mother  jumped  to  her  feet. 
She  kissed  him.  "  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you !  You 
don't  get  around  very  often  now." 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  15 

"  No,  I've  been  working  a  lot  nights  lately," 
Ernest  said. 

"  How  is  Sylvia?"  Mrs.  Martin  asked. 

"  Never  better.  And  in  such  good  spirits.  She 
hasn't  been  so  happy  since  the  twins  were  born." 

"  That's  good,"  Mrs.  Martin  commented. 

"  I  wondered,  father,"  Ernest  went  on,  "  if  you 
would  like  to  go  down  to  the  banquet  of  the  Busi- 
ness-Men's Club  tonight — it's  too  late  for  the  feed; 
but  we  can  listen  to  the  speeches.  They  say  there's 
going  to  be  some  good  speakers  this  evening — ex- 
Governor  Talcott,  Senator  Middleton,  and  that 
Socialist  mayor  from  Missouri  who's  been  in  the 
papers  so  much — let  me  see,  what's  his  name?" 

"  Shaw,"  Mr.  Martin  supplied. 

"  I  hear  the  Business-Men's  Club  is  going  to  make 
things  hum  this  coming  year,"  Ernest  went  on. 
"  Ever  since  Murray  was  elected  president,  there's 
been  a  lot  of  activity  all  along  the  line.  I  really 
think  there'll  be  something  doing  there  tonight." 

"  No — guess  I  won't,  Ernest,"  Mr.  Martin  re- 
plied immediately.  "  I  don't  feel  like  going  out 
tonight." 

"  Oh,  you'll  feel  like  it  all  right  when  you  get 
there,"  Ernest  urged.  "  Buck  up  and  come  along, 
Dad!" 

"  No, — guess  I  won't,  Ernest,"  Mr.  Martin  re- 
peated, smiling  but  determined. 


16  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Why  not?  "  Ernest  demanded.  "  You  haven't 
anything  else  to  do." 

"  I  know  I  haven't,"  Mr.  Martin  agreed.  "  The 
plain  truth  is  that  I  don't  want  to  go." 

'  Well,  you  ought  to  want  to  go,"  Ernest  declared 
argumentatively. 

"  Maybe,"  Mr.  Martin  admitted.  "  But  I'm 
through  with  that  stuff  now — I'm  leaving  it  to  you 
young  fellows.  You  see,  Ernest,  when  a  man  has 
reached  that  point  in  life  when  his  business  seems 
to  go  automatically — oh,  I  don't  mean  to  say  he's 
not  interested  in  new  schemes — but  nevertheless  it 
goes  by  itself — when  he  finds  himself  all  the  after- 
noon looking  forward  to  that  quiet,  simple,  well- 
cooked  dinner  that  he  knows  is  waiting  for  him  at 
home  and  to  the  long  evening  that  follows  it;  him- 
self in  front  of  the  fire,  his  wife  sitting  near  him  in 
a  big  chair,  the  dog  yawning  on  the  hearth  and  the 
cat  snoozing  beside  him,  his  pipe  and  tobacco  on  a 
little  table  at  one  side,  and  his  papers  and  the  maga- 
zines on  a  big  table  at  the  other — and  that's  about 
all  he  wants  out  of  life,  except  to  have  his  children 
and  grandchildren  come  around — I  guess  he's  got 
to  face  the  truth  and  admit  to  himself  that  he's  get- 
ting along." 

"  Oh,  quit  your  kidding,  father !  "  Ernest  adjured 
Mr.  Martin.  "What  rot!  You  make  me  sick! 
Come  on  down  to  the  club  with  me." 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  17 

Mr.  Martin  shook  his  head  decisively.  "  Don't 
think  I  will." 

"Oh,  you're  a  quitter,  father!"  Ernest  accused, 
retreating.  "  Good  night,  mother.  I'm  sorry  you 
married  Rip  Van  Winkle." 

"  You  said  to  Ernie  just  about  what  I  said  to 
Phoebe  this  afternoon,"  Mrs.  Martin  remarked 
after  her  son  had  gone.  " 1  told  her  that  I'd  recon- 
ciled myself  to  the  fact  that  I  was  getting  on  in 
years,  and  she'd  better  reconcile  herself  to  it,  too." 

"What  did  Phoebe  say?"  Mr.  Martin  asked 
with  interest. 

"  She  said  I  wasn't,  of  course,"  Mrs.  Martin  an- 
swered. "  But  she  cried — and  I  cried,  too." 

"  Of  course  the  children  take  that  sort  of  thing 
pretty  hard,"  Mr.  Martin  offered  after  a  pause. 
"  They  don't  know  what  fun  we're  having." 

"  I'm  glad  you  love  our  home  so,  Edward,"  Mrs. 
Martin  said  wistfully.  "  I  love  it  myself.  I'm  so 
happy  here.  I  always  have  been.  This  house  seems 
to  hold  in  it  the  history  of  the  life  we've  been 
through  together — the  children  growing  big  and 
going  to  school  and  falling  sick  and  getting  into 
trouble — and  all  the  family  misfortunes  and  bless- 
ings." 

She  looked  about  the  big  living-room  as  though 
trying  to  get  a  new  point  of  view  on  what  held  a 
sweet  familiarity:  comfortable,  roomy,  modern 


1 8  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

furniture,  many  plants  which  dropped  trailing  green 
growths  or  flecks  of  bloomy  color  against  paper  and 
woodwork;  photographs  of  children  and  grand- 
children in  every  period  of  growth  and  every  com- 
bination of  group.  The  room  showed  a  reposeful 
orderliness;  it  held  a  quiet  air  of  serenity,  to  which 
the  silvery  ticking  of  the  old  grandfather's  clock  in 
the  corner,  the  yawns  of  the  collie  on  the  hearth,  the 
occasional  rising  and  stretching  of  the  cat,  gave 
touches  of  an  affectionate  domesticity. 

"  Yes,  it  rests  a  man  so  after  a  long  day  at  the 
office,"  Mr.  Martin  said.  "  I  hate  to  hear  the  door- 
bell ring  sometimes  just  because  it  means  interrup- 
tion, and  I  have  moments  when  I  wish  we  never  had 
had  a  telephone  put  in  the  house." 

"There!  There's  the  telephone  now!"  Mrs. 
Martin  exclaimed.  "  You  invited  that,  Edward,  by 
saying  what  you  did.  I'll  answer  it."  She  went  out 
into  the  hall. 

In  spite  of  his  professed  hatred  of  interruption, 
Mr.  Martin  listened  attentively. 

"  Hello !  Hello !  "  came  to  him  from  Mrs,  Mar- 
tin. '  Yes,  this  is  Mrs.  Martin — oh,  good  evening, 
Mrs.  Richards — oh,  yes,  you'll  always  find  us  at 
home  in  the  evening — yes — yes — yes — no,  I  don't 
go  very  often — I  don't  know  why  exactly — yes,  I 
suppose  I  ought  to — oh,  I  don't  believe  I  could — 
it's  very  kind  of  Mrs.  Hunt,  and  I  feel  that  it  is 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  19 

a  great  honor  to  have  been  asked,  but  I  haven't 
any  faculty  for  that  sort  of  thing — I  hate  to  ask 
people  for  anything,  especially  money — I'm  sure  I'd 
be  a  great  failure — there  are  so  many  other 
women  who  can  do  this  ever  so  much  better  than 
I  can — oh,  Mrs.  Richards,  I  couldn't.  I  really 
couldn't.  You  don't  know  how — sort  of — shy  and 
awkward  I  am  with  strangers.  I'm  sure  I  won't 
have  any  success  whatever — well,  of  course,  if  you 
put  it  that  way,  I  don't  see  what  else  there  is  for 
me  to  do — I'll  say  *  yes  '  then,  but  don't  expect  any- 
thing from  me — and  please  tell  Mrs.  Hunt  what 
I've  said,  so  she  won't  expect  any  more  of  me  than 
I  can  do.  Of  course,  I'll  do  the  best  I  can." 

"What  are  you  stung  for?"  Mr.  Martin  in- 
quired when  his  wife  re-entered  the  room. 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered  with  an  unac- 
customed use  of  slang,  "  I  guess  that's  what's  hap- 
pened. I'm  stung  all  right.  It's  the  sort  of  thing 
that  I  hate  to  do,  and  yet  I  don't  see  how  I  could 
get  out  of  it,  the  way  Mrs.  Richards  put  it  to  me. 
It's  hard  to  refuse  people  over  the  telephone — I 
don't  know  why.  I  suppose  you've  heard  me  say  or 
Phoebe  say — that  the  Maywood  Woman's  Club  has 
been  trying  for  a  long  while  to  raise  money  for  a 
new  clubhouse.  They've  always  held  their  meetings 
in  the  Town  Hall  or  the  High  School  Hall.  They're 
good  enough  in  their  way,  of  course,  but  it  would 


20  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

be  much  nicer  to  have  a  building  of  our  own.  The 
women  say  that  if  they  had  a  pretty,  comfortable 
little  hall  with  a  roomy  stage  and  good  dressing- 
rooms,  and  a  convenient  kitchen  for  serving  refresh- 
ments, that  we  could  make  quite  a  bit  of  money  rent- 
ing it  for  theatricals  and  dances  and  dinners  and 
lunches  and  teas.  I've  always  been  very  strongly 
in  favor  of  it,  but  I've  never  interested  myself  much 
in  it  because — well,  it's  never  come  my  way  before. 
They  had  plans  drawn  up  several  years  ago.  The 
kind  of  clubhouse  we  want  will  cost  ten  thousand 
dollars.  We've  bought  the  land — that  money  was 
the  first  we  raised  and  it  didn't  come  so  hard.  But 
getting  money  for  the  clubhouse  has  been  a  long 
pull.  The  committees  have  done  everything  they 
could  think  of.  They've  given  plays,  lectures,  con- 
certs, whists,  bazaars,  picnics — and  rummage  sales 
— and  dances — and  cabaret  shows — anything  and 
everything  to  make  money.  But  we  still  need  four 
thousand  dollars  before  we  can  start  things." 

"Well,  what  do  they  want  you  to  do?"  Mr. 
Martin  asked. 

'  This  year  they've  got  a  new  idea.  They  say 
everybody  is  so  busy  that  they're  going  to  try  a  new 
scheme  and  see  what  can  be  done  by  asking  people  to 
contribute  cash  outright.  Mrs.  Richards  says  that 
there  are  a  lot  of  people  that  would  rather  do  that 
than  give  up  an  evening  to  go  to  something,  or 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  21 

have  to  buy  things  they  don't  want.  So  Mrs.  Hunt, 
the  president,  has  appointed  a  committee  of  twenty 
women  to  collect  contributions  of  money.  She  wants 
them  to  get  all  they  can  of  course,  but  to  make  it  a 
point  not  to  get  less  than  two  hundred  each.  There 
will  be  a  meeting  of  the  finance  committee  three 
weeks  from  today  in  the  afternoon  at  Mrs.  Richards' 
house." 

Mr.  Martin  whistled.  "  Four  thousand  dollars 
out  of  this  little  town  in  three  weeks.  Impossible! 
Can't  be  done!" 

"That's  what  I  told  them,"  Mrs.  Martin  said. 
"  But  they  said  it  wouldn't  do  any  harm  to  try,  and 
anyway  what  money  we  did  get  would  be  just  so 
much  gained.  Of  course,  of  all  the  things  in  the 
world  that  they  could  ask  me  to  do,  they've  struck 
on  the  one  that's  hardest — to  try  to  get  money  out 
of  people.  I  haven't  any  knack  for  that.  I  don't 
know  how  to  go  about  it.  I  guess  it's  because  for  so 
many  years  money  was  so  scarce  with  us,  Edward, 
that  I  put  an  undue  value  on  it.  It  seems  to  me  as 
though  I  were  asking  people  for  their  heart's  blood. 
I  told  Mrs.  Richards  and  she  said  they  all  said 
that.  Now,  Phoebe  would  be  perfectly  wonderful 
at  that  sort  of  thing.  Phoebe's  like  all  the  present 
generation — she  takes  money  for  granted.  And 
how  she  spends  it!  She's  not  extravagant  exactly, 
but  she  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  respect  for  money  I 


22  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Mrs.  Richards  told  me  they'd  asked  Phoebe  to  go 
on  this  committee,  but  she's  so  busy  with  a  million 
other  things,  she  had  to  say  '  no.'  Well,  you  know 
what  Phoebe's  life  is  like." 

u  That's  the  most  encouraging  thing  I've  heard 
about  Phoebe  in  a  long  time,"  Mr.  Martin  com- 
mented grimly,  "  that  at  last  she's  said  '  no  '  to 
something.  Why  didn't  you  put  your  foot  down  too, 
Bertha?" 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Martin.  "  Ex- 
cept that  to  say  '  no '  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the 
whole  wide  world  for  me  to  do.  And  then  Mrs. 
Richards  said  that  they'd  got  nineteen  of  the  twenty 


women." 


"  Well,  have  you  any  idea  you're  going  to  get 
that  two  hundred  dollars?  "  Mr.  Martin  demanded 
quizzically. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I'm  going  to  get  it,"  Mrs. 
Martin  admitted  humbly.  She  added  with  a  sud- 
den access  of  spirit,  "  But  I  know  I'm  going  to 
try." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  if  I  had  any  of  the  milk  of 
human  kindness  in  my  system,  I'd  hand  you  a  check 
for  the  whole  amount  now.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised 
if  that's  what  I  did  in  the  end.  But  I  guess  as  long 
as  you've  undertaken  this,  Bertha,  you'd  better  find 
out  what  you're,  up  against.  You  won't  say  *  yes ' 
so  easily  the  next  time.  Besides,  your  enterprising 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  23 

daughter  has  already  stung  me  three  times  for  this 
clubhouse  fund." 

"  You  don't  think  I  can  raise  it?"  Mrs.  Martin 
questioned. 

"  Not  a  chance,"  Mr.  Martin  answered. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  Mr.  Martin  said  the  next 
evening,  "  do  you  remember  that  banquet  that 
Ernest  tried  to  take  me  to  last  night?  Well,  I 
guess  I  missed  a  trick.  They  had  a  great  session. 
That  man  Murray  is  certainly  putting  new  blood 
into  the  Maywood  Business-Men's  Club.  Ever 
since  he  got  back  from  California,  he's  been  a  dif- 
ferent man.  He  came  into  the  office  to  see  me  this 
afternoon.  He's  got  a  great  scheme  on  hand.  It 
seems  that  the  twenty-third  of  next  May  is  a  great 
day  in  Maywood  history,  the  two  hundred  and  fif- 
tieth anniversary  of  the  sale  of  what  is  now  the 
township  to  Myles  Morrowdale  by  the  Indians.  I'd 
forgotten  all  about  that,  if  I  ever  knew  it.  Murray 
seems  to  think  that  we  ought  to  celebrate,  a  dinner 
or  a  meeting — or  something.  They  seem  kind  of 
hazy  about  what  they  do  want.  There's  only  one 
jhing  that  they  are  certain  of — they  must  have  a 
.silver-tongued  orator.  Murray  got  the  club  all  het 
up  over  it.  He  came  in  to  see  me  about  a  program 
— wanted  me  to  suggest  somebody  to  speak.  Well, 
we  ransacked  our  brains  for  names.  I  gave  them  all 


24  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

I  could  think  of — ex-Governor  Myrick  first,  but 
Murray  said  that  he  was  too  dull.  And  I  agree  with 
him.  Then  I  suggested  old  Colonel  Denton — I 
knew  just  exactly  what  he  would  say  to  that.  He's 
grown  so  childish  that  he  rambles  on  and  on  and 
there's  no  stopping  him.  Then  I  said  Robson,  but 
he  was  out  of  the  question  and  I  knew  it — he's  so 
terribly  unpopular.  Then  I  mentioned  Fair.  Mur- 
ray said  they'd  thought  of  him,  but  he  would  be 
away.  I  couldn't  think  of  anybody  else  and  he 
couldn't  think  of  anybody  else,  and  we  left  it  there. 
Oh,  yes,  Murray  didn't  seem  entirely  satisfied  with 
that  kind  of  meeting — asked  me  to  think,  if  I  could, 
of  some  more  suitable  way  of  celebrating  the  day." 

"  That's  a  rather  important  event — the  two  hun- 
dred and  fiftieth  anniversary,"  Mrs.  Martin  ob- 
served. "  Seems  to  me  they  ought  to  have  some- 
thing better  than  just  a  meeting  and  a  speech." 

"  I  thought  so,  too,"  agreed  Mr.  Martin.  "  I've 
been  thinking  of  it  ever  since.  You  know,  the  Mar- 
tins— Micah  Martin's  branch — were  the  first  family 
to  settle  in  Maywood  after  the  Murrays  bought  the 
land.  We've  lived  here  from  father  to  son  for 
several  generations.  You  remember  the  old  grave- 
yard over  the  river — well,  that's  crowded  with  Mar- 
tins. I  was  born  here,  but  my  father  moved  away 
when  I  was  about  twelve.  I  always  loved  this  town 
though,  and  never  forgot  it.  Always  thought  I'd 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  25 

want  to  come  back  some  day.  I'm  glad  we  left 
though,  because  if  we  hadn't  I  never  would  have  met 
you.  It's  queer  how  these  things  work  out.  Just 
as  soon  as  I  got  engaged  to  you  and  I  knew  I  was 
going  to  have  a  home  and,  likely,  a  family,  my 
thoughts  all  went  back  to  Maywood.  I  said  to  my- 
self, *  I'm  going  back  to  that  little  town  where 
all  my  ancestors  lived.'  It  was  just  as  though  they 
were  calling  me.  Anyway,  that  was  the  motive 
that  brought  me  here ;  and  ever  since  I  had  that  talk 
with  Murray  today  I've  been  thinking  about  May- 
wood  history  and  all  the  stories  father  and  mother 
used  to  tell  me." 

"  I  remember  when  we  first  came  here,"  Mrs. 
Martin  said,  "  you  were  full  of  it.  We  visited  that 
old  graveyard — don't  you  remember?  You  told 
me  more  stories !  And  you  had  an  idea  that  you 
wanted  to  buy  what  was  left  of  the  original  Martin 

farmhouse  and  build  on " 

"  Yes,  I  had  that  idea,"  Mr.  Martin  explained, 
"  but  I  never  could  get  Abner  Martin  to  loosen  up 
on  it.  He  doesn't  seem  to  want  it  for  anything,  uses 
it  for  a  sort  of  workshop ;  yet  he  won't  sell  it.  But 
if  it  ever  does  come  on  the  market — well,  you  watch 
me.  Ernest  ought  to  have  it.  My  father  told  me 
that  many's  the  time  he's  sat  in  the  chimney-corner 
and  listened  to  tales  of  the  Revolution,  told  by  men 
who  fought  in  it.  Lord !  that  used  to  bring  it  near. 


26  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

There  was  one  story  father  used  to  tell  me  that  I 
always  liked — I  haven't  thought  of  it  for  years.  It 
happened  on  the  day  that  Paul  Revere  came  gallop- 
ing through  the  countryside,  warning  the  farmers 
that  the  British  were  coming.  When  he  got  to  May- 
wood,  about  the  middle  of  the  morning,  my  father's 
grandfather,  my  great-great-grandfather,  old  Ne- 
hemiah  Martin,  was  plowing.  Paul  Revere  didn't 
stop,  he  just  hollered  across  the  field  that  the  British 
were  coming.  Nehemiah  ran  into  the  house,  got  his 
gun  and  powder  horn,  ran  out,  kissed  his  wife  and 
started  down  the  road.  That  wife  of  his  was  a  won- 
der, I  guess.  I  think  she  must  have  been  the  man  of 
the  family,  because  all  the  nephews  and  nieces  called 
her  Aunt  Nehemiah  instead  of  Aunt  Abigail,  which 
was  her  right  name.  Well,  anyway,  when  Nehemiah 
gets  to  the  turn  of  the  road,  he  turns  around  to  wave 
to  his  wife;  and  old  Aunt  Nehemiah  has  taken  his 
place  at  the  plow  and  is  working  away  as  though  she 
had  done  it  all  her  life.  I  always  liked  that  story. 
Sometimes  I  feel  as  though  I  ought  to  tell  it  to  the 
Suffragists." 

"  They'd  use  it  all  right,"  Mrs.  Martin  com- 
mented. 

"  I  couldn't  seem  to  get  that  talk  with  Murray  out 
of  my  mind,"  Mr.  Martin  went  on,  unheeding.  "  I've 
been  thinking  of  it  all  afternoon  long."  He  got  up 
and  began  to  walk  back  and  forth,  taking  short, 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  27 

quick  pulls  of  his  pipe.  "It  occurred  to  me  that 
perhaps  the  best  way  to  celebrate  this  anniversary 
would  be  to  have  one  of  those  pageants  that  they're 
giving  everywhere  nowadays.  If  I  get  it  right,  a 
pageant  isn't  a  play,  but  a  series  of  historical  pictures 
indicating  the  history  of  the  town.  After  my  mind 
got  going  on  it,  a  whole  lot  of  things  came  back  to 
me  that  Fd  clean  forgotten — stories  that  father  and 
mother  used  to  tell.  Then  I  began  stringing  them 
together.  I  think  I'll  go  around  and  see  Murray  to- 
morrow and  outline  the  thing  as  far  as  I've  worked 
it  out  and  suggest  that  we  have  an  all-day  celebra- 
tion; games  and  sports  in  the  morning,  open-air 
pageant  in  the  afternoon,  banquet  and  speeches  at 
night.  I  don't  see  why  we  should  have  to  have  any 
of  these  dubs  around  here  make  the  address.  I  don't 
see  why  we  couldn't  get  the  Mayor  of  Boston,  the 
Governor  of  the  State — the  President  of  the  United 
States,  for  that  matter." 

"  I  think  that  would  be  a  very  good  scheme/' 
Mrs.  Martin  approved. 

*  Yes,"  Mr.  Martin  went  on,  as  though  talking  to 
himself,  resuming  his  seat.  "  I'm  going  around  to 
talk  to  Murray  just  as  soon  as  I  can  make  it."  Then 
as  though  this  discussion  brought  up  an  associated 
train  of  thought,  he  added,  "  How  are  you  getting 
along  with  that  two  hundred  dollars  you  expected  to 
raise?" 


28  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Pretty  well,"  Mrs.  Martin  said.  "  I  made  up 
my  mind  that  I  wasn't  going  to  ask  my  friends  for 
money — they've  been  asked  for  so  many  things 
lately.  And  so  it  occurred  to  me  the  other  morning 
when  I  was  dressing,  that  I'd  go  from  house  to  house 
just  like  a  book  canvasser,  put  the  whole  case  before 
the  women — prove  to  them  that  this  clubhouse 
would  be  a  benefit  to  every  woman  and  child  in  town 
and  ask  them  for  contributions  of  any  sum  from 
pennies  up.  You'd  be  surprised  how  nice  people 
were.  Of  course,  I  started  with  the  richest  part  of 
the  town,  but  I  had  a  much  better  time  when  I  went 
across  the  river.  At  first  I  dreaded  it  like  anything, 
but  I  began  to  have  so  much  fun  out  of  it  that  I've 
been  doing  it  morning  and  afternoon  ever  since.  I've 
got  thirty-one  dollars  and  sixteen  cents.  People  are 
always  so  much  more  kind  than  we  think  they're 
going  to  be,  and  it's  such  an  experience  to  go  into  the 
different  houses  and  see  how  they're  furnished  and 
talk  with  the  children.  Oh,  I've  seen  so  many  dar- 
ling babies !  Why,  Edward,  I've  had  regular  adven- 
tures. One  woman  invited  me  to  stay  to  lunch.  All 
we  had  was  baked  potatoes  and  bacon  and  tea,  but 
oh,  wasn't  it  delicious!  I  was  so  hungry.  Why, 
Edward,  I've  had  some  of  the  nicest  talks  with 
strange  women.  You  couldn't  have  made  me  believe 
I'd  enjoy  anything  so  much." 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  Bertha,"  Mr.  Martin  reverted 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  29 

to  his  own  interest  It  was  evident  that  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin's remarks  had  slid  off  a  preoccupied  mind.  "  If 
you  ever  get  the  chance,  I  wish  you  would  bring  up 
this  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  business  at 
some  meeting  of  the  Woman's  Club.  They  probably 
would  have  some  ideas,  too.  Women  have  so  much 
more  time  to  attend  to  such  things." 

"  Oh,  Edward,  I  couldn't,"  Mrs.  Martin  remon- 
strated, appalled.  "  In  all  the  time  IVe  been  a  mem- 
ber of  that  club,  I've  never  spoken  once.  Often  I've 
wanted  to — and  sometimes  I've  had  good  ideas  on 
the  subject  under  discussion — but  I  never  could  get 
up  on  my  feet — that's  one  thing  that's  beyond  me — 
making  a  speech." 

'c  Well,  mention  it  to  them  in  one  of  your  com- 
mittee meetings,"  Mr.  Martin  suggested.  "  Or  ask 
somebody  else  to  bring  it  before  the  club." 

"  All  right,"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed,  "  I'll  remem- 
ber to  do  that." 

"You  going  out  tonight,  Bertha?"  Mr.  Martin 
said  when  he  came  home  one  night  many  days  later. 
4  Yes.  It  is  the  annual  meeting  tonight  at  the 
club,"  Mrs.  Martin  explained.  "  Election  of  officers. 
I  don't  want  to  miss  it.  I  expect  there'll  be  an  inter- 
esting time.  Mrs.  Hunt  absolutely  refuses  to  hold 
office  again.  She's  been  president  for  five  years  in 
succession,  and  she  says  they  ought  to  let  her  off  now, 


30  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

and  I  agree  with  her.  By  the  way,  Edward,  that 
committee  of  twenty — you  know  the  one  that  was  to 
raise  the  four  thousand  dollars — had  its  last  meeting 
this  afternoon;  and  I  was  the  only  one  who  had 
raised  the  two  hundred.  I  got  more — two  hundred 
and  seventeen  dollars  and  three  cents.  The  others 
had  all  raised  something.  They  ranged  from  six  to 
ninety-seven  dollars,  but  I  was  the  only  one  who 
came  in  with  the  whole  two  hundred.  I  feel  very 
proud,  and  Mrs.  Richards  said  after  we  made  our 
report  that  it  was  most  amusing,  because  I  was  the 
only  one  who  said  I  was  sure  I  couldn't  do  it.  All 
the  others  were  perfectly  sure  they  could  raise  one 
hundred  at  least.  Mrs.  Richards  asked  me  what  my 
method  was.  Then  I  told  them  how  I'd  been  can- 
vassing the  town.  I  got  quite  interested  in  what  I 
was  saying,  and  I  guess  I  must  have  talked  for  fifteen 
minutes  telling  my  experiences.  I  never  did  such  a 
thing  in  my  life.  I  was  ashamed  when  I  realized 
how  much  time  I  had  taken,  but  they  seemed  to  enjoy 
it.  They  laughed  and  laughed  and  laughed;  and 
when  I  got  through,  they  asked  me  all  kinds  of  ques- 
tions. I  can't  tell  you,  Edward,  how  set  up  I  was." 
There  was  a  triumphant  light  in  Mrs.  Martin's  eyes 
and  a  faint  color  in  her  cheeks.  "  I'm  sorry  that 
committee  work  is  over — I  enjoyed  the  meetings 
so.  I  don't  want  to  miss  tonight.  I'm  sure  it's 
going  to  be  very  exciting." 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  31 

When,  a  few  hours  later,  Mrs.  Martin  returned 
from  the  meeting,  she  let  herself  very  quietly  in  at 
the  front  door,  walked  very  quietly  into  the  living- 
room  and,  without  removing  her  hat  and  coat,  with- 
out speaking,  sat  down  very  quietly  by  the  fire. 

"  Won't  you  take  your  things  off  and  stay  with  us 
a  little  while,  Mrs.  Martin?"  Mr.  Martin  asked 
jocularly  after  an  interval. 

Mrs.  Martin  arose,  took  off  her  hat  and  coat, 
dropped  them  on  the  couch.  But  she  still  moved 
quietly,  slowly,  as  one  in  a  dream.  "  Edward,  what 
do  you  suppose  has  happened?"  she  demanded 
abruptly.  Before  her  husband  could  reply,  she 
answered  her  own  question.  "  They've  elected  me 
president  of  the  Woman's  Club." 

"  They  have,"  Mr.  Martin  said.  "  They  have. 
You  don't!  Well,  how  the  thunder  did  that  hap- 
pen?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered.  "  I 
haven't  the  remotest  idea.  It's  almost  as  much  of  a 
mystery  to  me  as  it  is  to  you.  It  just  happened — 
that's  all.  I  suppose  it  was  my  raising  that  two 
hundred  and  seventeen  dollars.  Mrs.  Richards  did 
it.  Three  or  four  other  names  were  suggested,  but 
they  elected  me.  Mrs.  Richards  told  the  club  all 
about  how  I  raised  the  money — all  about  it — she 
didn't  leave  out  a  word.  I  didn't  want  to  be  presi- 
dent, Edward,  but  I  didn't  have  the  courage  to  get 


32  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

up  on  my  feet  and  tell  them  so — and  when  they  took 
me  up  on  the  platform — -and  everybody  standing 
and  applauding,  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  going  to 
do.  And  when  Mrs.  Hunt  retired  and  left  me  there 
all  alone  in  the  chair  and  everybody  began  to  clap 
again  and  I  knew  I  had  to  make  a  speech — Edward, 
I  never  came  so  close  to  fainting  in  my  life.  I  felt 
perfectly  desperate  until  it  just  flashed  into  my  mind 
to  bring  up  that  matter  of  the  two  hundred  and  fifti- 
eth anniversary  of  the  settlement  of  Maywood.  I 
told  them  the  whole  story — everything — just  as  you 
told  it  to  me — and  suggested  that  we  co-operate  with 
the  Business-Men's  Club  to  make  it  the  greatest  day 
that  Maywood  has  ever  known.  Well,  those  women 
went  perfectly  wild  over  it.  They  were  just  full  of 
ideas  and  plans.  There'd  be  four  or  five  on  their  feet 
at  once,  calling  '  Madame  President ' !  Lots  of  them 
told  things  that  had  happened  in  their  family  con- 
nected with  the  history  of  the  town — and,  Edward, 
some  of  it  was  mighty  interesting.  There  was  the 
greatest  amount  of  applause  and  laughter,  and  all 
the  time  old  Mrs.  Mitchell  was  talking  about  Civil 
War  times  in  Maywood,  the  tears  were  just  stream- 
ing down  her  face.  Many  other  women  were  crying. 
We  never  had  such  a  meeting.  The  first  thing  I  had 
to  do  was  to  appoint  a  committee  of  twenty-five  to 
take  the  whole  matter  in  charge  and  then  a  whole 
lot  of  smaller  subcommittees.  I  don't  know  how  I 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  33 

did  it,  but  my  mind  seemed  to  clear  up — the  way  it 
always  does  when  you  have  to  do  something.  We're 
going  to  make  a  wonderful  day  of  it.  But,  oh,  Ed- 
ward, think  of  me  being  president  of  the  club!  " 

"  I'm  mighty  glad  of  it,  Bertha,"  Mr.  Martin 
declared.  "Mighty  glad.  It's  the  best  thing  could 
happen  to  you.  You  need  it.  And  you'll  make  a 
splendid  president.  I  guess  this  town's  going  to 
wake  up  pretty  soon  to  the  fact  that  they've  got  a 
remarkable  woman  in  their  midst." 

"  How  you  talk,  Edward !  "  Mrs.  Martin  ejacu- 
lated. 

"  While  you  were  gone,"  Mr.  Martin  went  on, 
"  Murray  called  me  up  and  told  me  that  he'd 
sounded  the  Governor — you  know  they're  great 
friends — about  his  making  a  speech  on  the  anniver- 
sary night.  The  Governor  said  he'd  come  through, 
and  he  thought  that  Opdyke,  Secretary  of  State, 
who  was  a  classmate  of  his  at  Harvard,  could 
get  the  President  to  come,  too.  What  do  you  sup- 
pose Murray  said?  He  wants  me  to  serve  as  toast- 
master  at  the  banquet  that  night — introduce  all  the 
speakers.  I  told  him  he  ought  to  do  that — and  he 
ought — but  he  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  He  said  he  never 
had  done  anything  like  it  in  his  life  and  it  was  too 
late  to  begin.  He  insisted  on  my  taking  the  job, 
and  finally  I  said  I  would.  That  will  be  in  the  even- 
ing, of  course,  in  the  Town  Hall." 


34  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Oh,  Edward!  "  Mrs.  Martin  exclaimed.  "  I'm 
so  glad.  I  know  you'll  do  it  beautifully — you're 
always  so  brief  and  to  the  point  and  yet  you  say  an 
awful  lot — and  funny,  tooi  I've  always  said  that 
the  time  would  come  that  this  town  would  wake  up 
to  the  fact  that  they've  got  a  remarkable  man  here. 
They're  going  to  find  out  right  now." 

"Quit  your  kidding,  Bertha!"  Mr.  Martin  or- 
dered. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Martin,"  Phoebe  said  to  her  mother 
on  the  evening  of  the  anniversary  night.  "  You  cer- 
tainly are  some  president.  The  Woman's  Club  end 
of  this  program  has  been  carried  out  beautifully.  It 
was  perfect — not  a  hitch  anywhere.  And  as  for  this 
pageant — it  was  one  of  the  most  impressive  things 
I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  I  wept  buckets.  I  felt  all 
kinds  of  quivers  of  pride  running  up  and  down  my 
spine  when  I  reflected  that  we  Martins  helped  to 
make  this  town.  You  certainly  have  been  in  the  pub- 
lic eye  this  day.  And  tonight  father  does  his  grand 
stunt.  I've  come  over  to  help  you  get  dressed.  It 
isn't  often  that  my  father  and  mother  dine  with  the 
President  of  the  United  States,  so  you've  got  to  be 
all  right.  What  are  you  going  to  wear,  mother  ? 
The  gray?" 

Mrs.  Martin  wore  a  long  and  dark  kimona.  On 
her  head  was  a  boudoir  cap.  "  I've  done  something, 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  35 

Phoebe,"  she  answered,  flushing  slightly,  "  that  I'm 
ashamed  to  tell  you  about.  But  all  my  life  I've 
wanted  one  of  those  beautiful  dresses  that  you  see 
in  those  smart  shops  on  Boylston  Street.  You  know 
what  I  mean — all  made,  so  I  wouldn't  have  to  bother 
about  it.  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  let  me  have  it, 
if  I  told  you  about  it,  so  I  went  in  town  the  other  day 
all  by  myself  and  picked  out — well,  it's  black  tulle 
trimmed  with  silver." 

Phoebe  stared.  "  Well,  good  for  you,  Mother 
Martin!"  she  emitted  finally.  "Only  you  do  me 
an  injustice.  Black  and  silver  is  perfectly  respect- 
able. Let  me  see  it  at  once.  How  much  did  it  set 
you  back?  " 

"  I'm  ashamed  to  tell  you,"  Mrs.  Martin  said 
with  emphasis.  "  But  it's  a  beautiful  gown,  if  I  do 
say  it  myself."  She  led  the  way  to  her  chamber, 
where,  suspended  on  a  hanger  on  the  closet  door,  was 
a  slim,  delicately  figured  mass  of  black  tulle  and  lace ; 
touched  here  and  there  with  dashes  of  silver. 

"  It's  a  wonder !  "  Phoebe  approved  with  enthusi- 
asm. "  I  can  see  that.  What's  this  under  the  sheet 
on  the  bed?" 

"  A  new  evening  coat,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  "  and 
a  new  evening  hat." 

Phoebe  lifted  the  sheet.  "  Oh,  what  a  beautiful 
brocade — it's  like  cloth  of  silver !  Try  it  on,  moth- 
er!" She  slipped  the  wide-sleeved  coat  over  her 


36  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

mother's  shoulders.  "  It's  lovely — that  deep  collar 
of  seal  makes  it  so  rich.  '  The  hat  is  awfully 
smart — I  love  a  lace  hat.  And  that  silver  rose  on 
the  brim  is  a  wonderful  touch.  You're  going  to  be 
considerable  pippin,  believe  me.  What  else  did  you 
get?  Out  with  it!" 

Mrs.  Martin  opened  the  lower  bureau  drawer. 

Phoebe  plumped  down  beside  it.  She  chuckled. 
"  Silver  slippers.  I'm  so  glad  you  didn't  get  black. 
Oh,  what  lovely  buckles,  mother !  I'm  crazy  about 
cut  steel.  And  silver  stockings !  "  With  a  smile  still 
trembling  on  her  lips,  she  looked  into  her  mother's 
face.  uls  that  all?"  she  demanded.  "Woman," 
she  commanded,  "  confess  all  your  guilt!  " 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  shamefaced,  "  I  had 
Madam  Lily  come  out  and  do  my  hair."  She 
removed  the  boudoir  cap,  which  showed  a  structure 
of  carefully  waved  coils  and  braids  that  first  dipped 
a  little  low  on  the  forehead  and  then  retreating 
seemed  to  cover  her  entire  head  with  a  shining  luxu- 
riance. Everywhere  gleamed  hairpins  of  silver 
shell.  "  And  while  I  was  about  it,  I  had  my  face 
massaged  and  my  nails  manicured." 

Phoebe  hugged  her  mother.  Then  she  made  Mrs. 
Martin  put  the  new  hat  on.  "  It's  a  duck,  mother — 
just  big  enough.  And  your  hair  looks  lovely  through 
it.  I  suppose  if  we  both  live  to  be  one  hundred  years 
old,  maybe  I'll  get  your  number,  Mother  Martin, 


IF  YOUTH  BUT  KNEW  37 

but  as  it  is  now,  you're  always  surprising  me.     Oh, 
hello,  Ern.    What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  I  came  up  to  look  father  over  before  he  went 
on  the  platform  tonight,"  Ernest  answered  from  the 
doorway.  "  I  was  afraid  he'd  make  some  fierce 
sartorial  break  that  would  disgrace  the  Martin 
family  forever.  But  I  find,  if  you  please,  that  he's 
bought  new  and  up-to-date  evening  clothes,  which 
include  white  gloves,  silk  socks,  shiny  pumps,  a  pearl- 
gray  silk  muffler — I'm  beginning  to  suspect  he  writes 
*  What  the  Man  Wears  '  for  the  theater  programs. 
Sister,  gaze  on  our  father !  "  Ernest  made  an  elab- 
orate gesture  as  one  putting  on  exhibition  the  figure 
that  joined  him  in  the  doorway. 

An  hour  later  Phoebe  and  Ernest  watched  the 
limousine  bear  their  father  in  the  direction  of  the 
Murray  house. 

"  Ern,"  Phoebe  said,  a  glint  of  mischief  brighten- 
ing her  misty  gray  eyes,  "  did  I  say  something  a 
while  ago  to  you  about  mother  and  father  being 
old?" 

"  I  seem  to  recall  that  you  did,  Phoebe,"  Ernest 
answered.  "  And  that  I  added  remarks  to  the  same 
effect." 

"  Well,  I  take  it  back,"  Phoebe  declared. 

"  I  renig  also,"  Ernest  agreed. 

"  I'm  now  going  to  my  humble  home,"  Phoebe 


38  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

announced,  "  put  on  the  blue  evening  dress  that's 
left  over  from  last  winter,  and  the  white  evening 
coat  that's  left  over  from  the  winter  before  that, 
and  the  evening  hat  that's — no,  I  recall  now  I  have 
no  evening  hat  whatever — and  follow  those  two  gor- 
geous, giddy,  gay  young  things  to  the  hall  and  be  a 
humble  spectator  from  the  gallery  of  their  triumphs. 
I  don't  think  I'll  make  any  attempt  to  recognize 
them,  however.  I  should  hate  to  have  the  President 
of  the  United  States  know  that  the  frump  hiding  in 
the  shadows  is  their  daughter." 

"  I  also,"  promulgated  Ernest,  "  will  return  to  my 
humble  cot.  I  will  put  on  the  evening  clothes  that 
I've  worn  ever  since  I  was  married,  the  overcoat 
that's  two  years  old  going  on  three,  and  the  top  hat 
that  belongs  in  vaudeville,  it's  such  a  joke.  I,  too,  will 
hie  me  to  the  hall  where  these  magnificent  young 
creatures  are  blooming  into  public  life.  I,  too,  will 
make  no  attempt  to  recognize  them.  I  don't  want 
the  President  of  the  United  States  to  suspect  that  the 
tramp  cowering  in  the  corner  is  their  son." 

"  Well,  take  heart,  Ern.  Maybe  when  we  get  to 
their  age,  we'll  have  a  good  time,  too." 

"  Maybe.  Anyway,  Phoebe,  I'm  beginning  to 
look  forward  to  it." 


CHAPTER  II 
PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE 

THAT  Saturday  afternoon  in  early  June  was 
hot,  but  the  Warburton  place  echoed  with 
noise  and  seethed  with  activity.  Outside,  the  noise 
was  greater  perhaps  and  the  activity  less,  although 
the  tennis  doubles  were  in  vigorous  swing.  Inside, 
noice  and  activity  were  almost  equal.  Upstairs,  a 
clatter  of  footsteps,  the  brisk,  quick  movements  of 
men,  the  stubby  stumble  of  a  boy,  resounded  from 
the  bare  floors.  Downstairs,  the  treble  accents  of  a 
little  girl  pattering  from  dining-room  to  kitchen  and 
back  again,  sustained  an  interminable  argument  with 
unseen  presences.  Above  all  this  surged  the  roar  of 
water  flowing  into  two  bathtubs,  growing  loud 
and  then  dull  again  as  doors  opened  or  shut;  and 
into  it  poured  constantly  the  staccato  purr  of  the 
telephone. 

"  Mother,  where  did  you  say  the  opera  glasses 
were?  "  the  boy  upstairs  called,  interrupting  Phoebe, 
who  was  entertaining  Professor  Halliway  down- 
stairs. 

39 


40  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Now  listen  this  time,  Toland,"  his  mother 
answered;  u  I  don't  want  to  have  to  tell  you  again. 
They're  in  the  right-hand  pigeon-hole  of  the  desk  in 
the  hall.  And  remember  to  be  very  careful  as  you 
approach  the  bush.  If  you  frighten  the  parent  birds, 
they  may  desert  the  eggs  and  never  come  back  again. 
Oh,  yes,  Professor  Halliway,  I  quite  agree  with 

you  on  that  matter.     Municipal What  is  it, 

Emily?  "   She  interrupted  herself  this  time,  address- 
ing the  maid  who  had  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Mrs.  Tilden,  Mrs.  Warburton.  She  said  not  to 
come  to  the  phone,  but  just  to  say  whether  you  could 
have  that  suffrage  meeting  here  a  week  from  Tues- 
day." 

1  Yes,  Emily.  Tell  Mrs.  Tilden  Tuesday  will  be 
all  right,"  Mrs.  Warburton  answered. 

'  This  is  always  such  a  gay  house  on  Saturdays," 
Professor  Halliway  commented.  "  My  wife  and  I 
often  speak  of  it." 

"  Yes,"  Phoebe  agreed,  "  we  always  look  forward 
to  Saturdays.  It's  a  kind  of  rallying  day  for  the 
family — my  brother  and  his  wife,  their  children,  and 
my  father  and  mother  generally  appear  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon.  And  then  all  the  Piety  Corner  peo- 
ple are  such  tennis  fans  that  our  court  makes  the 
place  a  kind  of  center  for  the  whole  neighborhood. 
We  have  a  shower  in  the  barn,  but  it  isn't  enough. 
People  are  taking  baths  in  the  house  all  the  after- 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         41 

noon  long.  My  husband  believes  so  much  in  exer- 
cise that  he  starts  the  tennis  just  as  soon  as  he  can  in 
the  spring  and  keeps  it  up  as  late  as  possible  in  the 
fall.  It  makes  the  summer  so  much  longer.  We 
play  on  Thanksgiving  Day  often.  I  really  think  we 
have  more  outdoor  life  than  any  family  in  May- 
wood." 

• 

4  Yes,  I  think  you  do,  Mrs.  Warburton,"  Profes- 
sor Halliway  said.  "  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
the  baby  sleeps  in  all  this  rumpus?  " 

"  Perfectly !  "  Phoebe  answered.  "  But  Micah  is 
a  marvel  for  sleeping.  No  wonder!  The  poor 

lamb He's  been  brought  up  in  a  household 

with,  as  I  always  say,  tennis  at  his  head  and  a  dance 
at  his  feet." 

:t  When  I  think  of  the  absolute  quiet  our  children 
had "  Professor  Halliway  murmured. 

Professor  Halliway  was  one  of  Phoebe's  neigh- 
bors. Although  he  had  not  lived  long  there,  he  was 
very  popular  in  Maywood.  He  came  from  the  West, 
and  he  seemed  to  express  in  his  personality  all  the 
briskness  and  enterprise  that  Eastern  people  have 
grown  to  believe  are  inevitable  Western  character- 
istics. Perhaps  what  Maywood  liked  best  about  him 
was  that  though  he  possessed  every  claim  to  being 
considered  a  highbrow — he  was  the  author  of  "  The 
Democratic  Ideal " — he  never  pressed  any  of  those 
claims.  He  was  a  perfect  specimen  of  one  Western 


42  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

type — long,  lean,  gangling.  The  deep  blue  of  his 
eyes  set  refreshing  glints  of  color  in  his  sleek, 
close-cropped  head.  A  certain  amusing  irregular- 
ity of  contour  added  a  whimsical  expression,  equally 
attractive.  The  letter  R  birred  pleasantly  through 
his  speech. 

4  You  are  very  lucky  to  have  space  enough  to 
permit  so  much  hospitality,"  he  added  thoughtfully. 
"  It  is  a  beautiful  place  and  a  beautiful  house.  Just 
how  old  is  it?  " 

"  About  two  hundred  years.  It's  one  of  the  three 
oldest  houses  in  town.  It  belonged  for  years  to  an 
old  Maywood  family  by  the  name  of  Durland.  They 
left  America  for  England  about  twenty-five  years 
ago." 

"  Durland !  Durland!"  the  professor  repeated 
with  a  note  of  interrogation. 

"  Eileen  Durland  married  the  Duke  of  St.  Seav- 
erns,"  Phoebe  answered  his  unconscious  question. 
1  You  must  have  heard  of  our  one  Maywood  celeb- 
rity. Maywood  wouldn't  be  on  the  map  if  it  weren't 
for  Eileen  Durland.  I  was  a  little  girl  when  the 
Durlands  left  Maywood  and  went  to  London,  and  I 
don't  remember  them  at  all;  but  I've  always  heard 
people  talk  about  them.  Mrs.  Durland  was  a  beau- 
tiful woman — a  blonde  of  a  very  ethereal,  almost  an 
angelic  type.  Mr.  Durland  was  blond  too  and  there 
were  eight  children — five  boys  and  three  girls — all 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         43 

blonds.  They  said  it  was  as  if  the  house  was  filled 
with  angels.  Eileen,  the  oldest  girl,  was  a  great 
beauty.  Mr.  Durland  had  very  influential  connec- 
tions in  England.  They  say  nobody  since  Lily 
Langtry  has  ever  made  such  a  sensation  in  London 
society  as  Eileen  Durland.  After  they  left,  this 
house  remained  vacant  for  years  and  years.  All 
during  my  childhood  it  was  unoccupied.  You  see, 
for  a  long  time  Maywood  didn't  develop  in  this 
district.  Everybody  was  going  out  Murray  Corner 
way.  The  house  was  beginning  to  get  a  little  tumble- 
down when  Tug  and  I  first  looked  at  it.  But  we  fell 
in  love  with  it  at  once." 

"  It's  a  wonder,"  Professor  Halliway  commented. 
"  Sometimes  I  think  it  takes  us  Westerners  really  to 
appreciate  a  place  like  this." 

The  room  in  which  they  sat  extended  down  one 
whole  side  of  the  house.  It  was  a  big  room,  nobly 
proportioned  in  the  colonial  way.  The  white-painted 
woodwork — the  doors,  the  mantel,  the  little  closets 
above  it — and  the  metalwork — knobs,  latches, 
hinges — were  exactly  what  the  Colonial  taste  had 
chosen.  And  much  exceptionally  fine  old  furniture 
bore  out  the  Colonial  atmosphere.  But  in  effect  the 
house  was  modern.  A  certain  cleanly  clutter  gave 
it  all  the  earmarks  of  a  real  living-room.  A  tea- 
wagon,  heaped  with  sandwiches  and  cookies,  steamed 
in  one  corner.  The  big,  old-fashioned  center  table 


44  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

was  loaded  with  books,  magazines,  and  incongruous 
things :  "  Fauna  and  Flora  of  New  England,"  *  The 
Blue  Fairy-Book,"  "  The  Old-Fashioned  Girl,"  the 
Youth's  Companion,  the  St.  Nicholas,  a  bag  of  mar- 
bles, an  open  paint-box,  a  baseball  mask.  A  file  of 
dolls,  sitting  in  tiny  chairs  on  the  hearth,  mutely 
contemplated  the  painted  scene  of  a  toy  theater.  On 
a  small  table  at  Phoebe's  right,  a  half-completed 
smock  of  pink  linen  overflowed  a  capacious  work- 
basket. 

"  That  stairway  is  such  a  beauty,  too,"  the  profes- 
sor murmured.  "  I  am  struck  afresh  with  it  every 
time  I  come  into  the  house." 

The  wide  living-room  door  opened  into  a  wide 
hall  papered  in  an  old-fashioned  landscape  paper. 
The  stairway,  which  filled  the  center,  widened  grad- 
ually as  it  approached  the  lower  floor.  It  was 
guarded  on  both  sides  by  a  balustrade  made  with 
carved  white-painted  banisters  and  a  mahogany 
hand-rail  which,  dropping  at  a  beautiful  slant,  finally 
coiled  at  the  newel-post  into  spirals,  exquisitely 
carved. 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  the  house,"  Phoebe  said  enthu- 
siastically. "  I  adore  it  more  and  more  every  year 
of  my  life.  We  bought  it  for  a  song.  And  for  a  long 
time  we  were  afraid  that  the  neighborhood  would 
gradually  deteriorate,  and  some  time  for  the 
children's  sake  we'd  have  to  give  it  up.  Then  sud- 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         45 

denly,  to   our  great  joy,   Piety   Corner  began  to 
boom." 

"  Piety  Corner!"  Professor  Halliway  repeated. 
"  I'd  forgotten  that  they  used  to  call  it  that.  Isn't 
it  amusing?  And  so  like  Puritanical  New  England! 
How  did  they  get  that  name?  " 

"  There  used  to  be  churches  on  the  other  three 
corners,"  Phoebe  explained.  '  Two  were  only  tem- 
porary ones;  they  were  taken  down  later.  The 
other  burned  to  the  ground  one  night,  and  the  con- 
gregation voted  to  follow  the  line  of  growth  out 
Murray  Corner  way.  It  was  very  exciting  when 
people  first  started  to  build  here.  Houses  began  to 
go  up  by  twos  and  threes.  Every  night  after  Tug 
got  home,  we  used  to  make  the  rounds  of  the  streets 
to  see  how  the  buildings  were  progressing.  They 
were  all  pretty  houses,  as  you  see,  but  comparatively 
inexpensive.  And  the  first  thing  Tug  and  I  knew, 
we  were  surrounded  by  a  young  married  community. 
Every  house  seemed  to  have  a  bridal  couple  in  it. 
Then  the  babies  began  to  come.  It's  been  such  fun 
watching  the  families  grow  up  round  us." 

1  Yes,"  the  professor  agreed,  "  that  must  have 
been  very  interesting.  It's  rather  a  striking  chance 
for  sociological  investigation.  And  again  you  are 
fortunate  in  that,  no  matter  how  much  the  neighbor- 
hood grows,  you  are  protected — so  far  as  space  is 
concerned." 


46  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

1  Yes,  we  are  lucky  in  that.  We  have  lots  of 
land  at  the  back.  At  the  other  side,  our  property 
runs  to  the  corner.  I've  always  been  worried  for 
fear  somebody  would  build  on  the  lot  next  door,  and 
so  Tug  bought  it  this  year  for  my  birthday.  I'm 
going  to  have  an  old-fashioned  garden  on  it — loads 
and  loads  of  flowers — in  great  masses  of  color.  And 
then,  gradually,  I'm  going  to  get  a  sundial,  a  bird's 
bath,  some  of  those  beautiful  garden  seats  in  carved 
Italian  marble,  and  a  fountain  perhaps.  Won't  it  be 
lovely?" 

'*  Very.  There  used  to  be  an  old  house  there, 
didn't  there?" 

4  Yes.    That  burned  when  the  church  burned." 
'*  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  old  barn?  " 
the  professor  inquired  after  a  contemplative  interval. 
"  If  we  can't  sell  it,  we'll  take  it  down." 
"  What  a  pity!  "  Professor  Halliway  commented. 
"  It's  a  splendid  specimen  of  Colonial  barn-architec- 
ture— so  ample  and  well-proportioned.     It's  almost 
as  good  as  the  day  it  was  finished — those  big  beams 
are  so  interesting  too  and  the  wooden  nails.     Did 
you  know  that  some  of  the  shingles  were  hewn  out 
with  an  adze?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't  know  that,"  Phoebe  answered. 
"  But  I  do  think  it's  nice — the  lines  are  so  long  and 
low.  I'm  really  sorry  to  have  it  go,  but  of  course 
we  have  no  use  for  it.  It  will  take  so  much  space 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         47 

from  my  garden  and  we  don't  need  it — we  have  a 
barn  of  our  own." 

The  noise  outside  had  not  abated.  Excited  cries 
from  a  tennis  crisis  filtered  through  the  hall.  Inside 
the  confusion  had  increased.  Upstairs,  male  voices 
shouted  from  the  bathroom  windows  encouraging  or 
derisive  comment  on  umpire  decisions.  Toland — a 
stocky,  wild-haired  little  lad,  all  teeth  and  freckles — 
came  sliding  down  the  banisters  and  departed  from 
the  house  with  the  full  boy-complement  of  unneces- 
sary clatter.  The  screen  door  opened  and  shut  sud- 
denly. 

"  Say,  Mrs.  Warburton,"  a  man's  voice  called 
from  the  hall,  "  I'm  in  a  mackintosh — half  dressed, 
so  I  won't  come  in.  But  can  I  borrow  some  dress 
studs  off  Tug?  The  baby's  asleep  in  our  room — the 
first  time  in  hours  after  this  teething  spell — and  we 
don't  either  of  us  dare  to  go  in  for  fear  of  waking 
her  up.  We're  in  an  awful  rush  to  catch  that  four- 
twenty-seven." 

"  Help  yourself,  Mr.  Dabney,"  Phoebe  answered. 
*  You  know  Tug's  room.  The  little  leather  box  on 
his  bureau." 

The  dialogue  between  the  fluting  treble  and  the 
unseen  presences  had  gradually  grown  louder. 
"Mother!  mother!"  the  treble  voice  called  sud- 
denly, coming  nearer  on  a  swift  patter  of  footsteps. 
"  Dotty  and  I  want  to  play  mud-pies,  and  Annie 


48  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

won't  give  me  any  dishes."  A  little  girl  appeared 
in  the  doorway. 

At  first  appearance  Phoebe-Girl  was  all  huge 
black-star  eyes,  agreeably  tangled  in  eyelashes.  But 
gradually  there  disentangled  themselves  from  their 
candid  lucence  the  red  of  her  brilliant  cheeks  and 
lips,  the  white  sparkle  of  her  engaging  smile. 

"  What  do  you  do  with  all  the  dishes  I  give  you, 
Phoebe-Girl?"  her  mother  demanded.  Phoebe's 
voice  was  stern  but  in  spite  of  herself,  her  expression 
softened  to  the  vision. 

"  Some  of  them  breaked,"  the  fluting  treble  ex- 
plained categorically.  "  And  Berfa-Lizabuff  taked 
all  the  perserve  glasses  and  Gordon  stole  a  whole 
lot.  And  we  made  lots  of  pies  and  now  we  want  to 
make  some  gingy-bread." 

"  Will  you  excuse  me  just  a  minute,  Professor 
Halliway?"  Phoebe  asked. 

"  Certainly,"  Professor  Halliway  answered. 

With  her  characteristic  vigor  of  action,  Phoebe 
swung  swiftly  through  the  doorway. 

"  Well,  I'll  see "  Phoebe's  voice  trailed  off 

into  silence  with  her  retreating  footsteps. 

Left  alone,  the  professor  walked  from  one  win- 
dow to  the  other  of  the  big  room.  At  the  side,  the 
decorative  white  wooden  fence  which  surrounded  the 
Warburton  place  was  not  far  from  the  house. 
Beyond — an  indiscriminate  scramble  of  weeds, 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         49 

broken  by  the  gray  hulk  of  the  old  barn — was  the 
recently  purchased  lot.  Beyond  the  lot  lay  flat  marsh 
country,  green  with  a  piercing  spring  greenness.  In 
front  stretched  a  well-kept  lawn  sprinkled  with  tree 
and  bush.  The  street  passed  this,  passed  the  new 
lot,  cut  into  the  heart  of  the  marsh,  came  out  on  the 
other  side  and  disappeared  in  a  big  huddle  of  faded, 
dull-colored  houses;.  At  the  back  were  marshes 
again.  But  these  drew  into  cultivated  patches  that, 
rising  higher  and  higher  on  the  slopes  of  Mount 
'Fairview,  looked  like  a  tilted  checkerboard,  colored 
in  all  the  shades  of  young  vegetable  growths. 

"  It  must  be  very  interesting — I  mean  there  must 
come  a  definite  psychological  effect  from  living  in  a 
house  like  this,"  Professor  Halliway  observed  on  the 
return  of  his  hostess — "  a  house  with  a  history  and 
traditions." 

"  Yes," — Phoebe's  comprehension  was  instant — 
"  there  is.  I  have  never  shaken  off  my  impres- 
sion that  the  Durland  spirit  lingers  here.  The 
Durlands  were  such  fine  people ;  they  were  all  mixed 
up  with  the  early  history  of  the  town,  you  know. 
And  then  their  family  life  was  beautiful — they 
were  so  lovely  to  everybody.  Oh  yes,  they've  left 
an  atmosphere  in  the  house.  I  feel  it  sometimes 
almost  as  a  presence." 

"  Yes,"  Professor  Halliway  mused  half  to  him- 


50  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

self,  "  it  would  be  a  rather  interesting  idea — a  little 
fanciful,  perhaps — to  work  up  into  an  essay.  The 
theme  that  it  is  every  man's  duty  to  leave  the  spirit  of 
civic  righteousness  in  his  home  both  as  an  inspiration 
and  an  urge  to  the  next  generation.  But  I've  really 
come  here  this  afternoon  with  a  very  definite  pur- 
pose, Mrs.  Warburton,"  he  changed  the  subject 
suddenly.  "  I  want  to  talk  over  something  with  you 
and  your  husband.  I'm  sorry  Mr.  Warburton  is  late 
today.  It's  about  the  marsh  section  and  the  marsh 
children." 

"  Oh  yes,"  Phoebe  said  comprehendingly,  "  I 
know  exactly  what  you  are  going  to  say.  It  is  a 
great  problem,  isn't  it?  " 

"  It  certainly  is,"  Professor  Halliway  asserted 
with  emphasis.  "  My  wife  feels  it  even  more  strong- 
ly than  I  do.  It's  only  the  fact  that  she's  been  such 
an  invalid  this  winter  that  has  kept  her  from  coping 
with  the  situation  before." 

"  I  suppose,"  Phoebe  suggested,  "  that  she's  only 
going  through  what  I've  been  through  with  Toland 
and  am  now  going  through  with  Bertha-Elizabeth." 

"Bertha-Elizabeth?"  the  professor  echoed.  "I 
thought  she  never  did  anything  but  stay  in  the  house 
and  read?  " 

"  She  always  has  been  a  great  reader,"  Phoebe 
said,  and  said  it — in  spite  of  herself — with  pride. 
"  But  although  she's  never  been  exactly  ill,  she's 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         51 

always  been  frail.  I've  always  worried  about  her.1' 
That  question  that  Phoebe  ever  asked  of  Fate  filled 
her  eyes  for  an  instant  with  its  wistful  poignancy. 
"  We  never  could  seem  to  make  her  keep  out  enough 
in  the  open  air.  But  this  spring  she's  so  much  more 
vigorous  and  strong !  I  don't  know  what's  done  it. 
Lately,  however,  she's  developed  the  greatest  friend- 
ship for  Cely  Connors,  who  lives  down  in  the  marsh 
section.  Cely  seems  to  be  a  nice  enough  little  girl, 
but  naturally  I'd  much  rather  have  Bertha-Elizabeth 
play  with  children  nearer  home — the  little  Drew 
children,  for  instance,  who've  just  come  back  from 
France.  They've  such  lovely  manners  and  speak 
such  delicious  French.  And  then  besides  she's  always 
running  down  to  the  marsh  section  to  play  at  Cely's 
house.  I  never  know  what  associations  she  may  get 
there,  of  course." 

"  Well,  they  won't  be  good  ones,"  the  professor 
announced  decisively,  "  you  may  be  sure  of  that. 
Perry  came  home  yesterday  with  his  nose  bleeding 
and  Hammond  with  his  eyes  blackened  where  they 
got  into  a  fight.  Dick  is  hand-in-glove  with  that 
Tom  Furey — a  great  big  bruiser  of  a  boy.  I  really 
can't  understand  it  in  Dick — he's  rather  the  stu- 
dent type.  We  can't  seem  to  keep  our  boys  away 
from  the  marsh  section  or  the  marsh  boys  away  from 
here.  Yet  they  always  fight.  And  it  isn't  because 
we  haven't  tried  to  be  friendly.  I've  often  offered 


52  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

the  marsh  boys  work  about  our  place,  but  they  always 
refuse  it." 

*  Yes,  I  know  exactly  what  you  mean.  I  never 
saw  anything  like  Bertha-Elizabeth's  passion  for 
Cely  Connors.  Recently  I've  got  Toland  interested 
in  birds — he's  spending  much  of  his  time  hunting 
them  with  opera  glasses.  But  before  I  thought  of 
that,  he  simply  lived  in  the  marsh  section.  Oh,  here's 
mother!  " 

Phoebe  ran  to  the  door  and  kissed  the  tall,  spare, 
white-haired  woman  who  appeared  there.  "  Father 
coming  later,  mother?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered. 

Mrs.  Martin  and  Professor  Halliway  shook 
hands. 

"  We're  talking  about  the  marsh  section  and  the 
marsh  children,  mother,"  Phoebe  explained. 

"  Yes,  and  I  would  very  much  like  to  have  Mrs. 
Martin  hear  my  plan,"  the  professor  offered  cor- 
dially. 

Mrs.  Martin  sat  down  in  one  of  the  big  winged 
chairs.  She  was  as  tall  and  slender  as  Phoebe,  but 
with  none  of  Phoebe's  muscular  vitality.  All  the 
colorings  of  youth  had  faded  from  her  face,  but  the 
fine  pencilings  of  character  had  taken  their  place — 
pencilings  that  her  wavy  white  hair  softened.  It  was 
obvious  the  instant  she  faced  the  professor  that  her 
personality  was  shy  and  retiring;  and,  the  moment 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         53 

she  began  to  speak,  that  her  speech  was  slow  and 
inarticulate.  But  it  was  also  obvious  after  she  en- 
tered the  room  that  she  was  there.  And  she  con- 
tinued to  be  there  with  a  deeper  and  finer  sense  of 
spiritual  ponderability  every  instant. 

"  The  thing  for  us  to  do,"  Professor  Halliway 
began,  "  is  to  stop  trying  to  cope  with  the  marsh 
children,  but  to  work  out  a  plan  that  will  eliminate 
the  marsh  section.  No  one  of  us  going  at  it  alone 
could  accomplish  anything,  but  a  group  of  us  work- 
ing together  could  get  away  with  it  absolutely. 
My  idea  is  to  form  a  company  that  shall  buy  up  the 
marsh  section,  make  a  residential  district  of  it  with 
the  kind  of  restriction  that  would  keep  out  any  but 
desirable  people.  Frankly,  Mrs.  Warburton,  I  look 
to  your  husband  to  provide  the  business  brains  for 
this  proposition — to  put  it  on  a  paying  basis.  I  mean 
that  with  Mr.  Warburton,  his  father,  your  father, 
your  brother  and  a  few  others  interested  in  it,  we 
could  certainly  swing  it.  They'd  probably  own  the 
greatest  interest  in  the  company.  The  rest  of  us 
could  invest  according  to  our  means.  From  the 
business  point  of  view,  it  seems  to  me  a  good  propo- 
sition. I  don't  see  how  we  could  lose  money  on  it, 
and  we  might  make  a  lot.  But  the  main  thing  is  to 
get  rid  of  unpleasant  neighbors  and  free  ourselves 
for  good  of  a  situation  that  threatens  the  welfare  of 
our  children." 


54  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  I  think  it's  a  perfectly  gorgeous  idea,"  Phoebe 
burst  out  enthusiastically.  "  It  would  be  the  very 
best  thing  that  could  possibly  happen  to  Maywood. 
Don't  you  think  so,  mother?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  exactly,"  Mrs.  Martin 
answered  slowly.  "  It's  a  thing  I'd  have  to  think 
about  before  I  gave  an  opinion." 

"  That's  the  thing  for  all  of  us  to  do,"  Professor 
Halliway  said,  rising,  "  think  it  over.  No — no  tea, 
thank  you,  Mrs.  Warburton,"  as  Phoebe  made  a 
movement  towards  the  tea-table.  "  I  must  go  now. 
I've  talked  this  matter  over  but  with  one  person — 
Mrs.  Peake  Tilden.  She  said  if  I  could  get  your  co- 
operation, Mrs.  Warburton,  the  thing  was  done. 
I'll  be  over  to  see  Mr.  Warburton  some  time  next 
week."  He  shook  hands  with  both  ladies. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you  came  early  this  afternoon, 
mother,"  Phoebe  said  after  the  professor  had  dis- 
appeared. "  All  this  talk  about  the  marsh  section 
is  funny,  for  I'm  going  down  there  right  away.  I 
didn't  want  to  say  anything  about  it  before  Professor 
Halliway,  but  Miss  Humphrey — Bertha-Elizabeth's 
teacher — stopped  in  for  a  few  minutes  this  morning, 
and  what  do  you  think  Bertha-Elizabeth's  been 
doing?  Playing  truant  right  along  every  week  for 
months.  Miss  Humphrey  said  of  course  it  never 
occurred  to  her  to  suspect  until  she  found  from  Miss 
Ward  that  Cely  Connors  was  always  absent  on  the 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         55 

same  day.  She  said  of  course  Cely  was  to  blame; 
she  was  going  right  down  to  see  Mrs.  Connors  about 
it.  She  said  she'd  stop  in  here  on  her  way  back  and 
tell  me  the  result  of  her  talk.  She  hasn't  come  yet — 
I  don't  know  why.  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  the 
best  thing  I  could  do  was  to  have  a  perfectly  frank 
talk  with  Mrs.  Connors  myself  and  tell  her  that  I 
want  her  to  send  Bertha-Elizabeth  home  every  time 
she  goes  down  to  the  marsh  section.  Of  course  I 
don't  want  Mrs.  Connors  to  realize  that  it's  Cely 
who's  put  Bertha-Elizabeth  up  to  this  playing- 
hookey  business,  and  I  do  want  to  be  as  tactful  and 
kind  as  possible.  But  I'd  like  you  to  be  with  me — 
you're  such  a  wizard  with  people.  You  don't  mind 
going?" 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  with  an  unexpected 
energy  of  assent.  "  I'd  like  to  go." 

The  screen  door  opened  and  shut  vigorously. 
"Where  are  you,  Phoebe?"  a  man's  voice  called 
from  the  hall. 

"  In  the  living-room,"  Phoebe  answered. 

"Does  Tug  always  call  for  you  the  first  thing 
when  he  comes  into  the  house?"  Mrs.  Martin 
inquired,  as  Mr.  Warburton  stopped  to  applaud  the 
tennis  players. 

*  The  instant  he  opens  the  door,"  Phoebe  an- 
swered. Her  face  suffused  for  an  instant,  not  with 
a  blush  but  with  an  expression  that  was  half  tender- 


56  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

ness,  half  amusement.  "I've  never  told  him  how 
much  I  love  it  for  fear  he'd  get  conscious  and  stop 
it.  He  always  acts  as  though  he  was  afraid  some- 
body had  stolen  me  in  his  absence.  Yes,  Tug," 
she  addressed  the  man  who  appeared  in  the  doorway 
— a  curly-headed  gentleman  whose  moon-glasses, 
however  much  they  exaggerated  the  size  of  his  blue 
eyes,  could  not  exaggerate  their  kindliness.  "  I  am 
still  here.  There  have  been  three  attempts  to 
abduct  me  since  morning,  but  I  have  foiled  them  all. 
You  took  a  great  risk  in  marrying  a  second  Helen 
of  Troy." 

"  Pm  often  struck  with  that  thought  myself," 
Tug  remarked  cheerfully,  kissing  his  wife.  "  Where 
are  the  children?  " 

u  Baby  is  asleep.  Toland  is  watching  the  robins 
in  the  lilac  bush  with  my  opera  glasses.  Phoebe- 
Girl  is  playing  mud-pies  in  the  barn.  Bertha-Eliza- 
beth has  gone  on  her  weekly  spree  with  Cely  Con- 


nors." 


"Where's  Edward?     Running  away  as  usual?" 

"  No,  he's  with  the  twins." 

"  Humph !  "  Tug  commented  sarcastically. 
"  He's  safe  in  that  gentle  atmosphere." 

"  Oh,  Tug,  Professor  Halliway  has  just  been  here 
with  a  most  wonderful  scheme — a  business  proposi- 
tion— that  he  wants  you  to " 

"  Can't  bother  with  it  now,"  Tug  cut  in  decisively. 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         57 

"  And  then  any  business  scheme  a  professor  puts  up 
interests  me  darn  little.  Besides  Ern's  coming  up  in 
a  minute  and  I'm  going  to  lick  the  wadding  out  of 
him.  He  said  Sylvia'd  be  along  later.  I've  got  to 
change."  He  disappeared  upwards. 

"  Tell  Ernie  I'll  come  back  here  before  he  goes," 
Mrs.  Martin  adjured  the  fleeting  figure. 

"  Well,  I  might  as  well  get  that  Connors  call  out 
of  my  system,"  Phoebe  decided.  "  Wait  until  I  get 
my  things  on,  mother.  I'll  be  ready  in  a  jiff." 

Phoebe  flew  up  the  stairway — she  had  never 
walked  upstairs  in  her  life — ran  through  the  hall. 
When  she  returned,  she  had  slipped  a  long  navy- 
blue  taffeta  coat  over  her  navy-blue  gown,  an  un- 
trimmed,  three-cornered,  black  straw  hat  on  her 
glinting  ripply  hair.  Long  black  gloves,  slim  black 
shoes,  a  crisp  black  veil — there  was  an  air,  inalien- 
able to  her  of  freshness  and  smartness. 

"  Bertha-Elizabeth  has  looked  so  rosy  lately  I 
can't  tell  you  how  happy  it's  made  me.  I  don't  know 

whether    youVe    ever    guessed    it,    mother " 

Phoebe  paused,  and  that  poignant  question,  which 
even  at  her  gayest  moment  pierced  the  assured  hap- 
piness of  her  look,  made  her  eyes  dilate  an  instant. 
1  Yes,  I've  guessed  it,"  her  mother  put  in  quietly. 

"  I've  always  been  afraid,"  Phoebe  confessed, 
"  that  I'd  lose  Bertha-Elizabeth — always — always 
— until  the  last  six  months.  She's  been  so  frail- 


58  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

looking !  But  I  never  told  anybody — not  even  Tug. 
Now  I  don't  even  think  of  it.  She's  got  such  a  good 
color." 

1  Yes,  your  father  has  spoken  of  it  again  and 
again — and  she's  begun  to  thicken  up." 

"  Oh  yes,  she's  gaining.  It's  curious,  I  never 
worry  about  the  other  children.  Toland  might  be 
made  of  iron  and  Phoebe-Girl  of  stone — they're  so 
strong.  Edward's  like  a  steel  rod.  As  for  Micah 
— he's  a  perfect  butter-ball." 

"  Yes,  they've  got  wonderful  constitutions,"  her 
mother  said  proudly.  "  They  get  that  from  my 
family." 

"  Of  course,  Mother  Warburton  says  they  get  it 
from  hers,"  Phoebe  remarked  mischievously.  "  But 
I  don't  care  where  they  get  it — as  long  as  they've 
got  it." 

"  I  think  Professor  Halliway  is  an  exceedingly 
interesting  man,  mother."  It  was  Phoebe  who 
changed  the  subject.  "  There's  something  so  finely 
democratic  about  him.  His  lecture  in  the  Town  Hall 
— •'  The  Civic  Consciousaess  ' — was  one  of  the  most 
splendid  things  I  ever  listened  to.  This  scheme  of 
his  sounds  pretty  good  to  me." 

"  I've  been  wondering  about  that,"  Mrs.  Martin 
said.  "  What  will  all  those  people  in  the  marsh  sec- 
tion do  if  you  buy  their  houses  over  their  heads?  " 

"  Do  without,  I  suppose,"  Phoebe  replied  lightly. 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         59 

"  If  they  can't  get  other  houses  in  Maywood,  per- 
haps they'll  go  to  Rosedale.  That's  the  nearest 
town." 

"  Well,  maybe  the  Rosedale  people  won't  want  to 
have  them,"  Mrs.  Martin  suggested. 

"  That's  Rosedale's  problem,  not  ours,"  Phoebe 
decided  trenchantly.  "  It's  only  up  to  us  to  decide 
the  problem  as  it  affects  Maywood." 

"  But  somehow,"  her  mother  promulgated  slowly, 
"  it  doesn't  seem  quite  fair  to  drive  people  out  of 
your  town  into  the  next — expecially  if  they  are  not 
what  Professor  Halliway  calls  *  desirable  people.' 
For  if  that  town  doesn't  like  them,  they  can  send 
them  on  to  the  next  town,  and  so  on.  That  would 
kept  them  on  the  move — sort  of — all  the  time." 

"  Yes,"  Phoebe  agreed.  "  I  suppose  it  would; 
Still,  what  else  can  we  do  ?  Our  duty  is  to  our  own 
community  as  we  see  it." 

Mrs.  Martin's  eyes  wandered  over  the  pool-dotted 
marshes  that  were  like  green  velvet  embroidered  in 
silver,  and  up  to  the  cloudless  June  sky  that  was 
like  a  bowl  of  the  most  brittle  and  transparent  glass, 
stained  at  one  point  by  the  vague  smear  of  the  cres- 
cent moon.  "  I  feel  as  though  I  were  in  the  real 
country,"  she  said.  "  Land,  I  can't  remember  when 
I  walked  over  this  road  last.  I  guess  it  was  when 
I  used  to  be  traipsing  down  to  the  marsh  section  all 
the  time,  myself,  first  for  you  and  then  for  Ernest." 


60  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Did  I  used  to  run  away  and  piay  with  the  marsh 
children?  "  Phoebe  asked,  obviously  surprised. 

"  My  Lord,  yes !  "  her  mother  answered. 
"  Everybody  down  there  knew  you.  Perfect  stran- 
gers to  me  were  always  bringing  you  back." 

"  Well,  I  guess  Bertha-Elizabeth  comes  rightly  by 
this  tendency,"  Phoebe  commented  with  a  gleam  of 
appreciation. 

"  Who  is  this  Mrs.  Connors?"  Mrs.  Martin 
asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Phoebe  answered  indifferently. 
"  I  don't  think  I've  ever  seen  her.  She's  got  several 
children — that's  all  I  know  about  her." 

"  It's  queer  about  women,"  Mrs.  Martin  said, 
after  an  interval  of  thoughtful  silence.  "  I  declare 
sometimes  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  them.  But 
then  when  I  think  how  experience  keeps  changing 
you !  You  have  one  opinion  about  a  thing  at  one 
spell  in  your  life  and  another  opinion  about  the  same 
thing  later.  And  you're  just  as  likely  as  not  to  go 
back  to  the  first  opinion  again.  And  yet  you're  per- 
fectly honest  all  the  time.  Take  motherhood — it's 
the  queerest  about  that.  All  the  novels  and  all  the 
poetry  tell  us  that  it  ennobles  women.  And  they're 
right  in  a  way.  I  guess  it  would  be  a  poor  kind  of 
woman  who  didn't  say  she  was  a  better  woman  for 
having  a  family.  But  then  see  the  other  things 
motherhood  does.  It  seems  to  me,  as  I  look  back 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         61 

upon  my  life,  that  I've  never  known  a  woman 
who  wasn't  a  snob  about  her  children.  I  was.  It 
isn't  because  women  are  unkind  or  cruel;  it's  only 
because  there's  something  inside  driving  us  to  do  the 
best  we  can  for  our  children  and  give  them  every- 
thing we  never  had  ourselves.  And  above  all  we 
want  them  to  grow  up  healthy  and  smart  and  good. 
That  makes  us  do  the  crudest  things.  Do  you  re- 
member Hetty  Browne,  Phoebe?  " 

For  an  instant  Phoebe's  radiant  smile  brought  a 
flare  of  light  into  her  smoky-gray  eyes.  "  Perfectly," 
she  answered,  "  a  lil'  nig  with  such  bright  eyes  and 
kinky  curls.  I  used  to  play  with  her  at  primary 
school.  I  remember  she  always  was  so  neat" 

"  Neater  than  wax! "  Mrs.  Martin  agreed. 
"  Well,  you  brought  her  home  from  school  two  or 
three  times.  And  you  two  used  to  play  together 
so  pretty  and  good  and  happy.  Then  I  noticed  that 
the  other  children  in  the  neighborhood  were  begin- 
ning to  stop  coming  into  the  yard.  And  I  was 
afraid  it  would  hurt  you.  And  so  one  day  I  sent 
little  Hetty  home,  and  I  told  her  she  must  never 
come  to  the  house  again.  Phoebe,  I  can  remember 
her  face  to  this  day  and  the  look  of  her  little  figure 
as  she  walked  away.  It  haunted  me  for  a  long  time." 

Phoebe's  eyes  misted  with  the  sympathy  that  was 
as  instant  as  her  mirth.  "  Poor  little  Hetty!  "  she 
exclaimed.  "That  makes  me  feel  awfully  bad. 


62  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

But  I  don't  see  that  you  could  have  done  anything 
different." 

"  Well,  I  don't,  either,"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed. 
"  And  yet  it  wasn't  Christian,  I  guess.  I  think  I'd 
try  to  find  another  way  now,  though  I  don't  exactly 
know  what." 

They  were  close  upon  the  marsh  section  now — 
not  a  very  big  area  at  most,  but  rather  too  crowded 
with  narrow  streets  which  in  turn  were  altogether 
too  crowded  with  narrow  houses.  The  marsh  sec- 
tion was  like  a  little  island  of  high,  dry  land,  and 
around  it  the  marsh  stretched  like  a  sea.  The  road 
that  led  out  of  it  ran  past  the  railroad  station  to 
Rosedale.  Within  the  marsh  section  itself,  jerry- 
built  apartment  houses  of  the  present  day  shouldered 
substantial  family  mansions  of  an  older  generation. 
Tenement  houses  of  the  intermediate  period  filled 
in  the  architectural  hiatus.  The  place  teemed  with 
spring  activity.  Little  boys  played  marbles  in  the 
streets ;  big  boys,  baseball  in  the  empty  lots.  Little 
girls  engaged  in  hopscotch  on  the  sidewalks;  big  girls 
in  jackstones  in  the  doorways.  Corner  groups  of  the 
one  sex  parted  to  permit  bisection  by  arm-in-arm 
groups  of  the  other.  The  piazzas  of  the  gone-to- 
seed  mansions,  the  meager  porches  of  the  tenement 
houses  were  filled  with  women  who  read  or  sewed; 
offered  or  received  gossip;  admonished  the  older 
children;  or  nursed  the  younger  ones. 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         63 

The  two  women  did  not  speak  for  a  while. 

"  It's  number  10  Acorn  Street,"  Phoebe  stated 
absently.  "  Here's  Chestnut — it's  right  along  here 
somewhere."  Then  as  though  she  were  answering 
some  unexpressed  criticisms,  she  poured  out  defense. 
"  You  don't  know  how  hard  it  is  for  us  at  Piety 
Corner,  mother.  Of  course  being  nearer  the  marsh 
section  than  any  other  part  of  Maywood,  we  have 
to  bear  the  brunt  of  all  the  trouble.  Those  marsh 
boys  are  divided  into  gangs,  and  they're  really  tough. 
Professor  Halliway  was  telling  me  what  a  terrible 
time  his  boys  are  having.  And  then  the  marsh 
children  rob  our  orchards,  steal  our  flowers, 
and  break  our  windows — it's  perfectly  dreadful 
the  things  they  do.  I  should  think  they'd  stay  at 
home." 

[t  Well,  there  isn't  much  space  for  them  to  stay 
in,"  Mrs.  Martin  commented  mildly. 

"  Oh,  here's  Acorn  Street,"  Phoebe  exclaimed, 
unheeding. 

They  crossed  the  main  street,  turned  into  a  side 
street,  and  presently  entered  a  yard  where  sat  a 
little  low,  two-storied  house.  Close  to  the  piazza 
and  along  three  sides  of  the  fence  ran  flower  plots 
in  full  leaf;  but  all  else  was  thick,  soft  grass.  Blos- 
soming lilac  bushes,  white  and  purple,  deluged  the  air 
with  fragrance.  An  old  boat  filled  with  earth 
showed  a  flutter  of  nasturtium  shoots.  A  woman 


64  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

arose  from  a  rocking-chair  on  the  porch  as  they 
turned  in  at  the  gate. 

"  Mrs.  Connors?  "  Phoebe  asked  politely. 

"  Yes,"  the  woman  answered.  Her  full  hearty 
tones  blurred  with  a  faint  suggestion  of  brogue.  Her 
wide  eyes  were  limpid  with  inquiry. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Warburton,"  Phoebe  explained — 
"  Bertha-Elizabeth's  mother,  and  this  is  my  mother, 
Mrs.  Martin." 

Mrs.  Connors'  face  lighted  with  a  glow  of  friend- 
liness as  instant  as  Phoebe's  own. 

It  was  a  round,  strong  healthily-colored  face,  sur- 
mounting a  round,  strong  full-bosomed  figure.  The 
abundance  and  bushiness  of  her  jet-black  hair,  the 
brunette  stain  under  her  satiny  bloom  gave  her  al- 
most a  tropical  appearance.  But  her  eyes  were  the 
color  of  Erin;  and  all  Erin's  hospitality  gleamed  in 
her  trusting  smile.  "  It's  glad  I  am  to  see  the  two 
of  you,"  she  declared  heartily.  "  Come  right  in." 

She  led  the  way  through  the  little  front  hall  into 
the  little  front  room.  It  was  small  and  neat,  with 
wallpaper  of  a  plain  bright  red  and  furniture  of  a 
highly  varnished  oak.  Some  books  had  overflowed 
from  the  modest  bookcase  onto  the  center  table,  had 
joined  there  a  magazine  or  two,  a  cribbage  board,  a 
basket  of  darning,  a  pitcher  of  lilacs.  On  the  mantel 
were  some  vases  of  an  innocuous  shape  and  color  and 
on  the  wall  a  few  pictures  equally  harmless.  Be- 


"Now,   Mrs.   Warburton !    Don't  you  be  making  any  apologies''' 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         65 

tween  the  windows,  however,  hung  what  made  a 
focus  of  beauty — a  print,  beautifully  colored  and  ex- 
quisitely framed,  of  Raphael's  Madonna  of  the 
Chair. 

"  Is  Bertha-Elizabeth  here  this  afternoon,  Mrs. 
Connors?"  Phoebe  asked. 

"  Yes,  she  and  Cely  are  out  in  the  kitchen — cook- 
ing," Mrs.  Connors  answered. 

"Cooking!"  Phoebe  echoed  in  surprise.  And 
then,  as  though  deliberately  ignoring  this  in  order 
to  get  to  more  important  business,  "  I've  come  here 
this  afternoon  about  this  matter  of  their  playing 
truant,"  she  plunged  straight  into  the  heart  of  it. 

"  Now,  now,  now!  Mrs.  Warburton!"  Mrs. 
Connors  exclaimed  heartily,  "  don't  you  be  making 
any  apologies,  because  I've  had  too  many  children 
not  to  understand  that.  I'm  glad,  though,  you  came 
to  me  before  you  saw  Bertha-Elizabeth,  because  be- 
ing the  young  mother  you  are,  you'll  be  thinking  it's 
more  serious  than  it  is."  She  flashed  a  smile  of 
understanding  to  Mrs.  Martin  which  that  lady  an- 
swered in  kind.  "  I  called  the  two  children  in,  the 
moment  Miss  Humphrey  left,  and  questioned  them, 
and  Bertha-Elizabeth  came  right  straight  out  with 
it.  She  said  that  she  made  Cely  play  truant,  so's 
they  might  work  in  their  rhubarb  garden.  She  was 
afraid  to  go  home  at  first,  and  I  told  her  I'd  go 
with  her  and  make  it  all  right  with  you.  Sure !  " 


66  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

she  exclaimed,  and  all  Ireland  vibrated  softly  in  her 
coaxing  voice,  "  and  you  wouldn't  be  punishing  the 
child  for  a  little  thing  like  that  now,  would  you?  " 

Phoebe  did  not  answer  that  question  for  a  mo- 
ment. But  her  face  changed  with  the  speed  and 
completeness  of  a  moving-picture  film.  Surprise, 
mystification,  anger,  mortification  made  eloquent 
progress  across  it.  Then  suddenly  she  veiled  it  with 
a  deliberate  inscrutability.  "  Certainly  not,"  she 
said.  She  spoke  graciously,  even  smilingly.  "  And 
it  is  very  kind  of  you  not  to  mind.  But  I  don't  un- 
derstand about  this  rhubarb  garden." 

'*  Well,  now  that's  a  long  story,"  Mrs.  Connors 
answered,  and  her  voice  still  coaxed.  "  Last  fall, 
Cely  wasn't  very  well — with  a  little  cough  that  kept 
on  and  on.  Himself  was  quite  worried  about  her; 
and  so  I  took  her  out  of  school  and  sent  her  to  her 
Grandmother  Connors  in  Charlestown  for  a  rest  and 
a  change-like.  Her  grandma  was  putting  up  rhu- 
barb, and  Cely  helped  her.  This  spring  she  and 
Bertha-Elizabeth  found  some  rhubarb  growing  in 
the  yard  of  that  old  empty  Brentwood  house  on 
Walnut  Street.  Cely  told  Bertha-Elizabeth  that  she 
knew  how  to  make  rhubarb  preserve.  And  Bertha- 
Elizabeth  told  Cely  if  she'd  play  truant  and  help 
take  care  of  the  garden,  she'd  bring  some  preserve 
jars  from  the  house  and  buy  sugar  out  of  her  spend- 
ing-money,  so's  they  could  put  it  up.  I  never  had  a 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         67 

suspicion  what  was  going  on  until  Miss  Humphrey 
came  this  morning." 

"  I  see,"  Phoebe  said  blankly.  She  looked  dazed 
for  an  instant.  Then  she  resumed  her  inscrutability. 

"  Bertha-Elizabeth  loves  to  cook — I  never  saw 
anything  like  the  knack  of  the  child.  Every  Satur- 
day in  the  winter,  I  let  the  two  of  them  make  cake 
or  cookies  or  pies.  I  feel  very  much  obligated  to 
you,  Mrs.  Warburton,"  Mrs.  Connors  had  the  effect 
now  of  intention,  as  deliberate  as  Phoebe's,  of  chang- 
ing the  subject,  "  for  letting  Bertha-Elizabeth  lend 
Cely  so  many  books.  Cely  loves  to  read,  but  I 
can't  afford  to  buy  her  all  the  books  she  wants,  and 
the  library's  such  a  long  way  off  for  a  little  girl.  I 
buy  her  one  of  Louisa  Alcott's  books  every  Christ- 
mas and  every  birthday,  and  that's  about  all  I  can 
afford.  Bertha-Elizabeth's  books  are  beautiful.  I 
make  Cely  take  good  care  of  them — she  covers  every 
one  of  them  before  she  reads  a  word." 

"  Oh,  she  needn't  do  that,"  Phoebe  protested  me- 
chanically. "  Bertha-Elizabeth's  Alcott  books  are 
the  ones  I  had  when  I  was  a  little  girl." 

'  Yes,  I  read  the  name  and  date  in  them,"  Mrs. 
Connors  said.  "  I  read  all  those  Alcott  books  when  I 
was  about  Cely's  age,  and  mind  you,  Mrs.  Warbur- 
ton — now  don't  it  seem  queer  the  way  things  come 
about? — I  read  those  books  in  the  very  house  in 
which  you're  living  now.  Eileen  Durland — the  one 


68  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

that's  the  Duchess— used  to  play  with  me  when  we 
were  children.  Oh,  what  friends  we  were !  Manny's 
the  day  I've  spent  at  her  house  and  manny's  the  day 
she's  spent  at  mine.  Her  mother  was  such  a  beauti- 
ful fine  woman.  My  mother — Heaven  rest  her! — 
used  to  say  she  looked  like  a  saint.  My  mother 
taught  Eileen  how  to  cook,  and  she  was  a  fine  little 
cook,  too.  Eileen's  mother  taught  me  to  love  read- 
ing. Eileen  sent  me  that  picture  when  I  was  mar- 
ried— all  the  way  from  London."  She  pointed  to 
the  Raphael  Madonna.  "  And  last  year  when  my 
brother  Tim  was  over  there — he's  a  gunner's  mate 
on  the  Marysville — he  dropped  her  a  postal-card 
saying  he  was  in  London.  She  invited  him  down  to 
her  house — an  elegant  grand  big  castle  it  was — and 
give  him  the  best  time  Tim  ever  had,  driving  all  day 
in  an  automobile." 

"  That  doesn't  surprise  me,"  Phoebe  declared, 
"  I've  always  heard  such  lovely  things  about  the 
Durland  family.  You  must  come  and  call  on  me 
soon,  Mrs.  Connors,  and  see  the  house  again." 
Phoebe's  intention  was  obviously  hospitable  but  still 
her  tone  was  a  little  mechanical.  And  she  main- 
tained her  bright  inscrutability. 

"  I'll  be  pleased,"  Mrs.  Connors  said.  "  Cely's 
told  me  how  fine  you've  made  it.  I  was  that  glad 
when  you  bought  it  and  the  FOR  SALE  sign  came 
down  I  could  have  cried.  It  used  to  give  me 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         69 

a  queer  feeling — sad-like — when  I  went  past  it.  I'm 
always  so  happy  in  my  mind  when  Cely's  at  your 
house,  Mrs.  Warburton,  but  I  don't  like  her  to  be 
with  manny  of  those  Piety  Corner  children.  They're 
a  bad  lot — some  of  them.  Those  two  older  Halli- 
way  boys  now — not  the  young  one — every  time 
they  come  down  here  they  do  be  making  trouble — 
that's  the  blessed  truth.  Mrs.  Connolly's  boy  came 
home  the  other  day  all  bloody  where  he'd  been 
fighting  the  two  of  them.  I  like  Dick  Halliway. 
Tom  Furey  says  he's  a  good  fine  boy.  But  the  rest 
of  those  Piety  Corner  boys!  They  rob  our  fruit 
trees — they  tromp  on  our  flower  beds,  and  they 
break  our  windows.  And  when  they're  getting  junk, 
it  do  be  God's  truth,  they  steal  everything  that  isn't 
nailed  down.  Himself  says  they'd  take  the  railroad 
track  itself  if  they  could  rip  it  up." 

Definitely  Phoebe  dropped  her  look  of  a  bright 
inscrutability  for  one  of  a  dazed  perplexity. 

"  Not  that  all  boys  aren't  bad  sometimes — the 
best  of  them,"  Mrs.  Connors  declared  charitably. 
"  But  we  was  discussing  it  just  the  other  day,  some 
of  my  neighbors,  and  there  was  some  talk  of  form- 
ing a  committee  to  go  up  and  see  the  parents  of  the 
boys  that  make  so  much  trouble.  And  then  we  said, 
*  Lord  love  us,  think  of  what  our  own  boys  do  be 
doing  all  the  time !  '  Now,  Mrs.  Warburton, 
wouldn't  the  two  of  you  be  having  a  cup  of  tea 


70  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

with  me  ?  I  put  the  teapot  on  the  stove  just  the 
moment  before  you  came." 

"  I  would  like  it  very  much/'  Mrs.  Martin  an- 
swered for  them  both.  Phoebe  seemed  to  find  it 
difficult  to  emerge  from  her  daze. 

Mrs.  Connors  bustled  out  of  the  room  and  bus- 
tled back,  bearing  in  installments  crackers,  jam,  a 
little  tea-set  of  a  thin  red  and  gold  Japanese  china. 
The  teapot,  however,  was  of  a  black  shiny  crockery. 

"  How  delicious  this  is !  "  Mrs.  Martin  approved, 
tasting  without  milk  the  steaming,  pale-gold  fluid. 
"  Tea  always  goes  to  the  right  spot,  doesn't  it?  " 

"  There's  nothing  like  it,"  Mrs.  Connors  averred. 
"  And  some  of  those  Piety  Corner  people,"  she  re- 
verted to  her  grievance,  "  seems  to  have  very  queer 
ideas,  indeed.  I  don't  mean  old  Maywood  families 
like  yours,  Mrs.  Warburton,  and  Mrs.  Martin,  and 
ours — I  mean  those  new  people.  They  look  down 
on  us  that  has  lived  here  in  Maywood  ever  since  we 
were  born,  as  though  we  was  the  dirt  under  their 
feet.  Sometimes  we  wish  we  could  move  them  all 
out  of  here  to  Rosedale — only  that  isn't  our  idea  of 
a  fair  way  to  act.  We're  very  proud  of  Maywood 
down  here  in  the  marsh  section,  and  we  hate  to  see 
those  kind  of  people  coming  into  it.  Down  here,  we 
think  everybody  is  as  good  as  everybody  else,  and 
those  ideas  don't  make  anny  hit  with  us.  Those  peo- 
ple seem  to  think  our  children  are  good  enough  for 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         71 

some  things — and  not  for  others.  When  they've 
got  anny  dirty  work  to  do,  they're  always  after  us." 
"  I  know  exactly  what  you  mean,"  Mrs.  Martin 
announced  sympathetically.  "  Once  when  Phoebe 
was  a  little  girl,  some  people  by  the  name  of  Emery 
took  the  big  Chandler  place  for  a  while.  They  had 
everything  money  could  buy — horses  and  carriages, 
servants  in  livery.  Their  little  daughter  Emmeline 
was  just  Phoebe's  age.  One  day  they  invited  Phoebe 
to  come  over  and  spend  the  day  with  Emmeline. 
Of  course  I  let  her  go,  but  when  I  asked  Emmeline 
to  come  over  and  spend  the  day  with  Phoebe  they 
wouldn't  let  her  come.  When  I  told  Mr.  Martin,  he 
got  as  mad — he  said  Phoebe  wasn't  to  go  there 
again  on  any  account.  But  it  seems  that  little  Emme- 
line had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  Phoebe,  and  begged 
so  often  to  have  her  over  there  that  Mr.  Emery 
actually  took  the  matter  up  with  Mr.  Martin  on 
the  train.  Mr.  Martin  said  Phoebe  could  go  over  to 
see  Emmeline  as  soon  as  Emmeline  had  been  over  to 
see  her.  *  But  it's  our  rule  never  to  let  Emmeline 
go  to  other  people's  houses,'  Mr.  Emery  said. 
*  She's  the  only  little  girl  we've  got.'  '  Well,  Phoe- 
be's the  only  little  girl  we've  got !  '  said  Mr.  Martin. 
4  And  I'm  not  inclined  to  take  any  more  risks  with 
my  child  than  you  are  with  yours.'  They  never  let 
Emmeline  come,  and  Phoebe  never  went  over 
there." 


72  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

'  Well,  the  queer  creatures  that  some  people  do 
be !  "  Mrs.  Connors  commented.  "  Have  some 
more  tea,  Mrs.  Warburton." 

When,  after  a  protracted  struggle  with  some  legal- 
looking  documents,  Tug  Warburton  started  for  bed 
that  night,  he  discovered  his  wife  sitting  at  the  head 
of  the  stairway  in  the  moonlight  that  poured  through 
the  hall  window. 

"  Stop  where  you  are !  "  she  commanded  as  his 
foot  touched  the  lower  step.  "  You're  not  coming 
nearer  until  you've  heard  a  confession  I've  got  to 
make." 

Phoebe's  long  pale-blue  kimona,  wrapped  tight 
about  her  body,  minimized  her  matronly  fullness, 
brought  out  lost  suggestions  of  her  girlish  slimness. 
Her  loose  hair,  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon  and  falling 
in  feathery  pale-amber  torrents  onto  her  shoulders, 
subtracted  from  the  roundness  of  her  face,  revived 
a  lost  pointedness  of  contour.  Pale-blue  bed  shoes 
peeked  from  under  her  kimona.  Her  attitude  was 
that  of  a  naughty  child  who  expects  to  be  disciplined. 

Tug's  face  gloomed  for  an  instant;  then  gleamed 
as  he  ensconced  himself  comfortably  on  the  lower 
stair.  "  Shoot,  wife  of  my  bosom !  "  he  commanded. 
"  Put  me  out  of  my  misery." 

"  Do  you  realize,  Toland  Warburton,"  Phoebe 
went  on,  "  that  your  wife  is  the  queen  of  snobs?  " 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         73 

"  I  certainly  don't,"  Tug  asserted.  "  Now  that 
you  ask  me,  I'll  admit  that  it  has  never  even  oc- 
curred to  me.  Still,"  he  added  as  one  recognizing 
a  great  cosmic  truth,  u  all  women  are  more  or  less, 
aren't  they?  " 

"  Yes,"  Phoebe  said  sorrowfully.  "  Mother  says 
so,  and  I  guess  she's  right  They  don't  mean  to  be 
— they  don't  know  it  often;  they  can't  seem  to  help 
it.  I  didn't  know  I  was  until  today." 

"  What  revealed  you  to  yourself,  O  spouse  of 
my  soul?  "  Tug  continued  in  extravagant  apostrophe. 
He  smiled  genially  as  one  who  humors  mania  for 
the  moment. 

"  A  lot  of  things,"  Phoebe  admitted  mournfully, 
"  all  coming  at  once.  First  Professor  Halliway  told 
me  about  a  scheme  that  I  thought  was  a  perfect 
wonder.  It  was  for  all  the  Piety  Corner  men  to  get 
together,  buy  up  the  marsh  section,  turn  out  the 
people  who  are  living  there,  and  change  it  to  a  resi- 
dential neighborhood  with  such  restrictions  that  only 
what  he  called  4  desirable  '  people  could  afford  to 
live  in  it." 

"  Poppycock!  "  Tug  exploded.  He  started  to  kick 
the  newel  post,  but  thought  better  of  it.  "  And  I 
must  say  I'm  stuck  on  his  nerve.  Some  of  these 
year-and-a-half-old  citizens  of  ours  give  me  a  fine 
big  elegant  pain.  What  does  he  know  about  the 
marsh  section?  I  was  born  and  brought  up  in  May- 


74  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

wood,  and  I  like  the  marsh  section  fine.  Why,  when 
I  nearly  got  T.B.  that  time  when  I  was  growing  too 
fast,  Mike  Leahy  saved  my  life  teaching  me  to  box 
in  his  barn.  Mother  thinks  it  was  that  punk  three 
months  we  spent  in  Florida  that  cured  me,  but, 
believe  me,  it  was  Leahy  chased  the  T.B.  bugs  out 
of  my  system." 

"  Well,"  Phoebe  announced  with  a  fresh  acces- 
sion of  self-depreciation,  "  that's  just  about  as  much 
as  I  know  about  things.  I  thought  it  was  a  perfectly 
ripping  scheme  until  I  went  down  to  the  marsh  sec- 
tion to  call  on  Mrs.  Connors." 

"What  Mrs.  Connors?"  Tug  demanded.  "O 
angel  of  my  household!"  he  added  with  placating 
intent. 

"  Mrs.  James  Connors,"  Phoebe  answered.  "  Do 
you  know  her  husband?  She  spoke  as  though  you 
did." 

"  Jim  Connors!  I  should  say  so.  Jim  and  I  play 
hand-ball  regularly  at  the  gym.  Jim's  a  great  per- 
son. By  the  way,  O  fairy  of  my  fireside,  didn't  your 
heart  swell  with  a  vague  emotion  when  you  entered 
the  Connors'  front  yard?  "  Tug  had  the  air  of  one 
turning  the  conversation  to  more  cheerful  channels. 

"  Not  that  I  noticed,"  Phoebe  replied,  impatiently 
patient  of  interruption. 

"  O  woman,  woman !  And  yet  you  ask  for  the 
ballot!  Don't  you  know,  O  apple  of  my  eye,  that 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         75 

on  that  hallowed  spot,  Mike  McCarthy  trained  for 
the  fight  with  Big  Jack  Nolan  that  made  him  cham- 
pion heavyweight  of  the  world?  " 

"  No,  of  course  I  didn't  know  it.  Tug,"  Phoebe 
went  on,  ignoring  further  his  attempt  at  lightness, 
"  I  might  as  well  tell  you  now  that  Bertha-Elizabeth 
has  been  playing  truant  from  school  right  along  for 
months  with  Cely  Connors." 

"  Good  for  Bertha-Elizabeth !  "  exclaimed  Tug. 
"  I  didn't  know  it  was  in  her." 

"I'm  sure  I  didn't,"  Phoebe  declared.  "Of 
course  when  Miss  Humphrey  told  me  about  it,  I 
took  it  for  granted  that  it  was  Cely  who  was  putting 
Bertha-Elizabeth  up  to  it.  But  when  I  got  down  to 
Mrs.  Connors'  house  I  discovered  that  it  was  the 
other  way  about.  Not  that  I  really  mind.  Bertha- 
Elizabeth's  been  working  all  this  time  out-of-doors 
in  a  garden,  and  that's  why  she's  got  those  rosy 
cheeks.  I  almost  don't  care  what  she  does  as  long 
as  she  looks  so  well.  Mrs.  Connors  has  been  teach- 
ing her  how  to  cook,  and  she's  simply  crazy  about 
it.  It's  a  great  mortification  to  me,  Tug,  when  I 
reflect  that  for  months  I've  been  trying  to  think  of 
some  scheme  that  would  take  Bertha-Elizabeth  out 
of  her  books,  and  that  Mrs.  Connors  has  succeeded 
where  I  failed.  And  then  Mrs.  Connors  began  tell- 
ing me  how  bad  the  Piety  Corner  children  act  when 
they  go  down  to  the  marsh  section,  and  how  they 


76  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

hate  to  see  them  come.  And  that  set  me  to  think- 
ing  "  She  paused. 

"  Go  on,  O  light  of  my  life !  "  Tug  encouraged 
her. 

"  Well,  sometimes,  Tug,  I  think  " — Phoebe's  voice 
sank  to  its  lowest  pitch  of  self-depreciation — "  that 
I'm  the  original  bonehead.  Talk  about  solid  ivory! 
Solid  adamant  is  soft  in  comparison  with  what  sub- 
stitutes for  gray  matter  in  my  skull.  For  instance, 
I'm  always  wrong  in  everything  I  think  I  know.  As 
far  as  I  see  I  have  only  one  good  quality.  If  any- 
body shows  me  where  I'm  wrong — and  they'd  better 
use  words  of  one  syllable  and  spell  everything  in 
capital  letters — I  can  see  it.  But  I  can  never  get  it 
for  myself.  And  I  realize  now  that  the  reason  for 
the  bad  feeling  between  these  two  sections  is  that 
they  have  nothing  in  common  to  bring  them  together 
and  make  them  understand  each  other — to  give  them 
the  same  interest.  And  then  I've  been  thinking 
what  a  narrow  congested  place  the  marsh  section  is 
with  no  parks  for  the  children  to  play  in,  and  I 
thought — Tug,  you  told  me  that  I  could  do  anything 
I  wanted  with  the  lot  next  door,  didn't  you?  " 

"  I  certainly  did,  O  lodestar  of  my  existence !  " 
Tug  declared.  "  Raise  hippopotami  if  you  want — 
the  marsh  is  handy." 

u  I  don't  want,"  Phoebe  announced  automatically. 
"  I  guess,"  she  went  on  analyzingly,  "  the  trouble 


PHOEBE  AFFECTS  AN  EXCHANGE         77 

with  a  lot  of  people — really  fine  people  like  Profes- 
sor Halliway — is  that  they're  democratic  enough  in 
theory,  but  they're  snobs  like  the  rest  of  the  world  in 
practice.  We're  all  born  snobs,  and  a  big  part  of 
spiritual  development  seems  to  be  a  matter  of  out- 
growing it.  Mother  said  a  beautiful  thing  today  on 
the  way  home  when  we  were  talking  it  over.  In 
fact,  it  was  a  lot  of  things  she  said  which  showed 
me  that  I  had  always  been  a  snob  without  knowing 
it.  She  said,  *  The  idea  of  thinking  that  any  one 
little  child  could  be  any  better  than  any  other  little 
child! '" 

Phoebe  paused.  She  looked  questioningly  down 
into  her  husband's  face.  That  face  smiled  cheeringly 
up  at  her.  But  she  did  not  return  the  smile. 

"  And  so  I  thought,"  Phoebe  poured  on,  "  that  in- 
stead of  a  garden,  I'd  turn  the  next  lot  into  a  play- 
ground. Mrs.  Connors  told  me  how  her  youngest 
son  learned  to  play  tennis  when  he  was  away  this 
summer  and  how  crazy  he  is  about  it  but  never  gets 
a  chance  to  play  because  there  are  no  courts  round 
that  he  can  use.  And  I  thought  I'd  put  in  a  tennis 
court — and  maybe  two  on  my  lot — for  children  only. 
And  work  up  tournaments  and  offer  cups  and  get  the 
marsh  section  children  in  the  habit  of  coming  up 
here.  And  I'm  not  going  to  tear  down  that  barn. 
I'm  going  to  fit  it  up  gradually,  part  of  it  as  a  sort 
of  gymnasium  for  the  little  boys,  with  apparatus— 


78  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

and  things;  and  part  of  it  as  a  sort  of  play-place 
for  the  little  girls  with  a  cook-stove — and  things. 
I'd  just  love  to  teach  the  girls  cooking,  especially  if 
Mrs.  Connors  would  help  me.  I'm  sure  she  would 
— she's  an  awfully  fine  woman.  It  seems  that  Mrs. 
Durland  made  this  place  a  rendezvous  for  the  chil- 
dren of  both  neighborhoods.  That's  why  her  chil- 
dren grew  up  so  splendid."  Again  Phoebe  paused. 
And  again  she  met  her  husband's  smile.  This  time 
her  eyes  were  alight  with  a  soft  fire,  a  lucence  akin 
to  the  moon-magic  that  was  sifting  in  through  the 
hall  window. 

"  Professor  Halliway  said  a  wonderful  thing  to- 
day, Tug.  He  does  have  beautiful  ideas.  I  can't 
quote  it  exactly — but  I  agree  with  it  absolutely. 
When  a  house  has  been  used  for  the  finest  purposes 
by  one  generation,  it's  sort  of  up  to  the  next  one  to 
carry  it  along.  Don't  you  think  so,  Tug?  And  do 
you  approve  of  my  plan? " 

"  I  certainly  do,  O  sun  of  my  universe !  "  Tug 
agreed  heartily.  "  And  go  as  far  as  you  like !  "  He 
smiled  again,  and  this  time  his  smile  was  reflected 
in  the  flood  of  happiness  that  surged  to  his  wife's 
face. 


CHAPTER  III 
SYLVIA'S  SISSIES 

IN  some  form  or  other,  it  was  happening  so  often 
now,  that  Ernest  Martin  wondered  why  his  wife 
did  not  get  it.  It  was,  he  reflected,  a  part  of  the 
angel  quality  in  Sylvia's  kindness  that  she  never  sus- 
pected others  of  unkindness.  But  Ernest,  who  had 
watched  the  situation  grow,  was  becoming  more  and 
more  sensitive  to  it — the  more  as  he  did  not  yet  see 
what  he  could  do.  Sylvia's  condition  was  in  his 
opinion  still  serious.  It  circumscribed  all  his  con- 
versation with  her.  At  this  moment,  for  instance, 
he  wondered  if  he  dared  tell  her  what  had  just 
happened. 

Coming  into  the  train  late,  Ernest  caught  sight 
of  his  cousin  Lora  talking  with  Nella  Todd.  He 
started  in  their  direction.  Some  people  changing 
seats  back  of  them  held  him  an  instant.  It  was 
then  that  he  got  it — from  Lora,  almost  shouted  to 
overcome  the  reverberation  of  the  train  shed.  "  Syl- 
via's sissies !  "  Lora  said.  "  Well,  I  suppose  that 
would  be  what  some  people  would  call  them.  But 
it  seems  to  me  they  could  find  something  better  to 

79 


8o  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

do  than  to  criticize  such  a  sweet  woman  as  Sylvia." 

Ernest  retreated  swiftly  to  the  smoking-car  with- 
out having  greeted  the  ladies. 

"  Sylvia's  sissies !  "  The  phrase  still  rang  in  his 
ear.  He  gazed  fixedly  out  at  the  landscape  so  that 
he  would  not  have  to  talk;  a  landscape  rapidly  re- 
treating from  the  express  in  sliding,  gliding,  spirals 
of  speed;  a  landscape  so  familiar  that  he  did  not 
even  see  it. 

"  Sylvia's  sissies !  " 

Ernest  Martin  was  very  proud  of  the  boy  twins 
that  were  Sylvia's  contribution  to  their  marriage. 
Husky  babies — and  blackly  brunette — from  the 
beginning,  they  had  grown  into  sturdy  dark-browed 
little  lads,  whose  coloring  contrasted  amazingly  with 
their  mother's  fairness.  Mentally,  he  ran  down  the 
length  of  their  short  lives.  Sylvia  had  taken  care 
of  them  herself  and  she  had  given  her  whole  time 
and  energy  to  the  job.  It  had  drained  and  thinned 
her.  It  seemed  to  Ernest  that  he  watched  each  in- 
stant of  the  gradual  process  by  which  the  shimmer- 
ing wild-rose  color  faded  out  of  Sylvia's  cheeks  and 
reappeared  in  the  substantial  cherry  bloom  of  her 
two  boys.  When,  however,  he  remonstrated  with  her, 
she  silenced  him  with  her  seemingly  superstitious 
fear  that  it  was  impossible  for  twins  to  be  equally 
healthy,  that  unless  she  watched  them  with  the  con- 
stant care  of  the  scientist  making  a  delicate  and 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  81 

hazardous  experiment,  one  or  the  other  was  sure  to 
develop  weakness.  Their  babyhood  was  character- 
ized by  feedings  of  scientific  frequency,  punctuality 
and  mathematical  exactitude  of  duration,  alternating 
with  naps  so  carefully  planned  that  the  whole 
machinery  of  the  house  was  subsidiarized  to  them. 
This  period  lapsed  insensibly  to  another  in  which  she 
supervised  the  twins'  lives  with  some  difference  of 
care  but  none  of  degree.  She  walked  to  school  with 
them  in  the  morning,  met  them  at  noon,  walked  back 
with  them  in  the  afternoon,  met  them  at  night.  At 
twilight  she  read  to  them  stories,  poems,  history. 
Between  times  they  played  out  of  doors,  but  always 
under  her  eye.  It  was  the  same  in  vacation.  At  the 
seashore  she  always  sat  with  them  while  they  dug 
in  the  sand  or  paddled  in  shoal  water.  In  the  coun- 
try she  played  with  them  all  over  the  comfortable 
farm  at  which  they  boarded.  Except  when  they  were 
in  school,  the  boys  were  practically  not  out  of  her 
sight. 

The  advantages  of  Sylvia's  system  were  that  the 
twins  had  remarkably  good  manners  and  that  they 
were  exceedingly  intelligent.  The  disadvantages 
were  self-evident — that  they  were  still  babies,  though 
they  were  now  seven  years  old.  The  advantages 
thus  far 'outweighed  the  disadvantages — Ernest  had 
to  admit  that.  But  next  year  the  twins  would  enter 
grammar  school.  Ernest  smiled  wryly  when  he 


82  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

thought  of  them  at  recess  time,  surrounded  by  gangs 
of  boys  whose  chief  joy  in  life  was  to  spy  out  baby 
weakness  and  play  on  it.  He  had  no  doubt  that 
the  experience  was  just  what  they  needed,  and  yet 
every  ounce  of  paternal  feeling  winced  at  the  thought 
of  the  violence  of  the  process  and  their  unprepared- 
ness  for  it. 

"  Sylvia's  sissies !  " 

He  reviewed  the  instances  that  had  opened  his 
eyes  to  the  condition  of  affairs.  Curiously  enough, 
it  was  his  mother,  the  most  gentle  and  least  trouble- 
making  of  women,  who  first  scratched  his  conscious- 
ness in  this  matter. 

"  Ernie,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  "  sometimes  I  think 
Sylvia  works  too  hard  taking  care  of  the  children. 
Fm  afraid  she's  wearing  herself  out." 

"  She's  doing  that  all  right,  mother,"  Ernest  re- 
sponded promptly.  "  But  it  takes  somebody  with 
more  influence  over  her  than  I  to  prevent  it." 

"  It  isn't  right,"  his  mother  affirmed  decisively, 
and  then  a  little  more  hesitatingly,  "  and  in  a  way, 
Ernie,  it  isn't  good  for  the  children.  It's  better  for 
them  to  be  more  self-dependent." 

There  was  no  more  talk  on  the  subject  then.  But 
the  phrase  '  It's  better  for  them  to  be  more  self- 
dependent,'  came  back  repeatedly,  stayed  a  little, 
then  disappeared.  Later,  his  sister  opened  the  sub- 
ject. 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  83 

"  Say,  Ern,"  Phoebe  remarked  with  her  charac- 
teristic directness  and  trenchancy,  "  you  mustn't  let 
Sylvia  work  so  hard  taking  care  of  the  children. 
It's  really  too  much.  She's  beginning  to  show  the 
effects.  She's  lost  her  color." 

"  I  know  she  works  too  hard  just  as  much  as 
you  do,  Phoeb,"  the  ordinarily  tranquil  Ernest  re- 
plied with  a  suggestion  of  asperity.  "  But  if  you 
think  I — or  anybody  else — can  do  anything  with  Syl- 
via when  it's  a  question  of  the  children,  you  don't 
know  her — that's  all." 

"  But,  Ern !  "  Phoebe  began  with  one  of  her  eager 
exclamative  rushes  into  words.  Then  she  came  to 
a  stop  so  instant  that  it  was  as  though  some  sudden 
thought  had  put  a  break  on  her  speech.  She  went 
on  more  slowly.  u  It!  isn't  that  alone;  it's  bad  for 
the  children  to  be  so  over-supervised.  It  makes 
them  dependent  and  keeps  them  babies;  people  are 
beginning  to  talk  about  it.  Toland  said  the  other 
day  in  school  one  of  the  boys  asked  them  why  they 
didn't  wear  dresses  like  girls." 

Ernest  made  some  general  reply  and  immediately 
changed  the  subject.  He  could  no  more  discuss  his 
wife  with  his  sister  than  with  his  mother.  But  that 
remark  lingered  longer  than  the  first  one;  lingered 
with  an  unpleasant  sense  of  rancor. 

And  then  a  few  days  later,  another  incident  hap- 
pened. Following  the  crowd  to  the  smoking-car,  he 


84  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

joined  a  trio  of  his  neighbors.  As  he  slipped  into 
a  seat,  Doane  was  just  bringing  a  remark  to  con- 
clusion. 

"  I  know  they're  young  devils.  We're  always 
paying  for  window  glass  they've  broken  playing  ball. 
And  the  policeman  stops  regularly  to  complain  of 
some  outrage  they've  perpetrated — but  at  least 
they're  not  tied  to  their  mother's  apron  strings 

like "  Feeling  the  movement  at  his  side,  Doane 

turned.  At  the  sight  of  Ernest,  his  jaw  dropped. 
"  Where  did  you  come  from?  "  he  asked  stupidly. 

"  Boston,"  Ernest  answered  jocularly.  "  As 
usual.  That's  my  place  of  business.  Let  me  give 
you  my  card." 

The  other  two  men,  with  the  effect  of  rushing 
into  conversation,  broke  in  with  remarks  in  which 
politics  mixed  with  baseball.  The  incident  made 
little  impression  on  Ernest  at  the  time.  It  was  not 
until  the  next  day  that  he  realized  it  had  made  any 
impression  at  all.  Then  it  recurred  to  him,  bringing 
a  sense  of  mental  discomfort.  Suddenly  with  one  of 
those  strange  psychological  gleams  that  we  call  in- 
tuition, it  flashed  on  him  that  they  had  been  discuss- 
ing his  children.  "  Tied  to  their  mother's  apron 
strings !  "  That  remark  rankled,  and  rankled  sorely. 

And  now  ".  Sylvia's  sissies  "  ! 

He  must  not  let  that  go  by.  He  must  say  some- 
thing to  Sylvia.  At  times  before,  he  had  remon- 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  85 

strated  on  his  own  initiative  with  his  wife.  Once  he 
had  suggested  mildly  that  the  twins  be  permitted  to 
go  to  school  alone  and  again  with  a  little  more  in- 
sistence that  they  be  allowed  to  play  with  other 
children  unchaperoned.  Both  times  Sylvia  had  flown 
to  arms.  Her  morbid  horror  of  the  dangers  of  in- 
jury from  haphazard  motor  travel  and  of  disease 
from  haphazard  social  contact  foamed  up  into  an 
interval  of  great  nervous  excitement.  Ernest 
dropped  the  question  at  once.  But  now,  he  saw 
plainly,  he  must  reopen  it. 

The  decision  sent  him  speeding  to  the  door  of  the 
car,  the  first  one  to  alight  when  it  pulled  into  the 
Maywood  station.  It  hastened  his  pace  along  Main 
Street,  but  when  he  turned  up  Olympic  Avenue  his 
speed  slackened.  Other  considerations  began  to  pour 
into  his  mind.  Since  the  birth  of  their  little  daughter, 
stillborn,  three  years  before,  Sylvia's  condition  had 
been  serious.  She  had  lived  during  the  greater  part 
of  those  three  years  in  a  black  fog  of  physical  weak- 
ness and  mental  morbidity.  It  seemed  to  Ernest  that 
a  few  weeks  before  she  had  begun  to  emerge  from 
this  fog.  And  then  suddenly  this  encouraging  re- 
crudescence developed  curious  phases.  It  pro- 
duced periods  in  which  a  strange,  hectic  physical 
brilliancy  was  accompanied  by  an  even  stranger, 
deep-sunk  mental  preoccupation.  Ernest,  who  had 
acquired  the  habit  of  watching  his  wife  stealthily,  in 


86  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

terror  always  of  the  melancholia  which  threatened, 
was  harassed  with  dread.  Did  this  mean  rejuvena- 
tion or  a  reaction  towards  complete  mental  break- 
down? It  circumscribed — that  dread — all  his  con- 
versation with  her.  At  this  moment,  for  instance, 
he  wondered  if  he  dared  risk  telling  her  just  what 
had  happened. 

"  Father,"  Phoebe  said,  appearing  in  the  Martin 
living-room  that  Saturday  afternoon,  "  come  out  and 
take  a  walk  with  me.  There's  something  I  want  to 
talk  over  with  you." 

Mr.  Martin  groaned  with  an  ostentatious  display 
of  reluctance,  but  he  arose  immediately.  *  You 
mean  you  want  to  tell  me  of  something  you're  going 
to  do.  You're  in  doubt  whether  you  ought  to  do  it; 
and  you  want  me  to  back  you  up." 

"  Take  your  pipe  along,"  Phoebe  ordered.  "  We'll 
walk  a  little  way  up  Mt.  Fair  view." 

Obediently  Mr.  Martin  put  his  pipe  in  one  pocket 
and  a  box  of  tobacco  in  the  other.  "  Why  don't  you 
talk  it  over  with  your  mother?"  he  taunted  his 
daughter.  "  You're  afraid  she  won't  agree  with  you." 

"  Put  on  your  coat !  "  Phoebe  commanded.  "  And 
don't  let  me  hear  another  word  out  of  you. 
You're  the  worst  brought  up  father,  Edward  C. 
Martin,  that  I  ever  saw.  You're  a  perfect  I.W.W. 
of  a  parent.  I'm  ashamed  of  my  work.  There's  no 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  87 

obedience  in  you.  It's  about  Sylvia,"  she  continued, 
as  he  emerged  into  the  rose-scented  warmth  of  the 
early-summer  afternoon.  "  And  Ernest — and  the 
twins — and  everything."  She  slipped  her  arm  into 
his. 

"  Oh,  I  know  just  what  you're  going  to  say,"  Mr, 
Martin  exclaimed,  cramming  his  pipe  with  tobacco 
and  lighting  it.  "  I  get  it  from  your  mother  all  the 
time.  Sylvia  isn't  bringing  the  children  up  right — 
supervises  them  too  much — they're  sissies." 

"  Yes,  that's  about  it,"  Phoebe  admitted.  "  Every- 
body's talking  about  it.  It's  one  of  the  neighbor- 
hood jokes.  I've  tried  to  speak  of  it  to  Ern,  but  you 
know  how  he  is.  Everything  Sylvia  does  is  perfect 

and " 

"  I  think  Sylvia's  about  right  myself,"  Mr.  Martin 
interrupted. 

"  Of  course  she  is !  "  Phoebe  asserted  roundly. 
"  I'm  not  criticising  Sylvia.  I  think  I  understand  it 
as  other  people  don't.  I've  thought  so  many  times  of 
what  Sylvia  has  told  me  about  the  struggle  she  and 
Marion  had  when  they  were  left  orphans  so  young. 
When  I  compare  my  life  with  theirs — why,  father, 
Sylvia  did  all  kinds  of  things  to  get  through  college. 
Telling  stories  to  children,  and  being  waitress  at  that 
hotel  in  Marblehead  the  year  I  met  her.  Sylvia  told 
me  once,  father — this  was  after  she  got  engaged  to 
Ern — that  not  having  had  a  home  of  her  own  for 


88  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

so  long  and  having  lived  in  so  many  boarding- 
houses,  she  was  frightened  to  death  for  fear  she 
never  could  make  a  pretty  home  for  Ern." 

'  Well,  she  certainly  has  made  good  on  the  house- 
keeping proposition,'*  Mr.  Martin  commented. 
"  Your  mother  says  she's  a  wonder." 

"  I  should  say  she  had!  "  Phoebe  agreed.  "  She 
said  also  that  the  wives  and  mothers  that  she  knew 
were  so  round-shouldered  and  wrinkled  and  hollow- 
eyed  and  homely  from  too  much  child-bearing  and  so 
dowdy  and  frumpy  from  too  much  housework,  that 
she  was  awfully  afraid  she'd  get  careless,  too." 

"  Well,  none  of  that  has  happened,  has  it?  "  Mr. 
Martin  asked. 

"No,  of  course  not!"  Phoebe  answered.  "But 
you  see  it's  because  she  had  such  a  sad  childhood  and 
because  she  knocked  about  so  much  from  pillar  to 
post  during  her  childhood  that  she  determined 
her  children  should  have  everything  and  be  every- 
thing that's  right.  And  it's  ended  in  her  doing  too 
much  for  them.  But  really,  father,  it's  getting  to  the 
point  of  absurdity.  The  twins  aren't  any  more 
developed  in  certain  ways  than  four-year-old  tots. 
Of  course,  in  other  ways,  they're  much  more  devel- 
oped. Sylvia  reads  to  them  all  the  time.  She's  teach- 
ing them  the  American  Revolution  now.  She's  al- 
ways chasing  to  the  encyclopedia  to  answer  their 
questions.  On  the  intellectual  side  they're  extraor- 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  89 

dinary,  but  on  what  you  might  call  the  social  side, 
they're  perfect  failures.  They  don't  know  anything 
about  how  to  play  with  other  children." 

"  But  after  all,  Phoebe,"  Mr.  Martin  said,  "  isn't 
this  their  business  and  don't  you  think  we  can  depend 
on  Ern  to  straighten  it  out?  " 

"  No,"  Phoebe  contradicted  with  conviction. 
"  You  see,  Sylvia  is  just  beginning  to  come  out  of 
the  terrible  condition  that  followed  the  death  of  the 
baby.  She's  never  gotten  over  that — she  wanted  a 
little  daughter  so — and  sometimes  I  think  she  never 
will  get  over  it.  Why,  father,  Ernest  told  me  once 
that  there  were  times  after  the  baby  died  when  he) 
thought  Sylvia  was  going  insane.  I  know  Ernest 
well  enough  to  know  that  he  wouldn't  say  or  do 
anything  that  would  bother  her  any  more  than  he 
would  knock  her  down.  I  think  she  worries  all  the 
time  for  fear  something  will  happen  to  the  twins. 
I  thought  you  might  say  something  to  her." 

Mr.  Martin  laughed.  "  I'm  afraid  you'll  have 
to  guess  again,  daughter.  Interfering  in  family  af- 
fairs, even  if  it  is  my  own  son,  isn't  my  line  at  all." 

'*  Well  anyway,  father,  as  long  as  we're  out  for  a 
walk,  let's  go  around  and  call  on  Sylvia." 

As  Ernest  opened  the  door,  voices  came  to  him 
from  the  living-room.  Sylvia  was  not  alone  as  he 
had  hoped.  He  glanced  in. 


90  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Hello,  Phoeb !  Hello,  father !  "  He  kissed  his 
wife.  4  This  is  a  regular  family  reunion,  isn't  it? 
Why  didn't  you  bring  mother?  " 

"  Mother  was  tired,"  Phoebe  explained.  "  She 
said  she'd  stay  with  the  children.  And  besides,  Dad 
and  I  wanted  to  have  the  little  private  talk  together, 
which  the  rest  of  a  jealous  family  so  rarely  per- 
mits to  us.  I  like  to  walk  with  father,  anyway;  it's 
like  being  with  royalty.  All  the  females  in  the 
circumambient  atmosphere  nearly  kill  themselves  to 
get  a  bow  from  the  handsomest  man  in  Maywood. 
I'm  thinking  of  suggesting  to  the  Maywood  Wom- 
an's Club  that  they  offer  a  cup  to  the  most  pulchritu- 
dinous  male  in  town.  The  only  objection  to  that 
is  that  they'd  get  my  base,  selfish  motive  right 
off." 

"  Well,  I've  taken  so  many  cups  in  beauty  con- 
tests," Mr.  Martin  said  with  an  air  of  tolerance, 
**  that  I  don't  know  that  I  want  any  more.  Silver 
polish  is  so  expensive  these  days." 

Mr.  Martin  was  a  handsome  man,  although,  in 
spite  of  his  own  words,  it  was  apparent  that  he 
was  not  unduly  conscious  of  it.  In  her  girlhood 
Phoebe  used  to  say  that  he  looked  like  a  leading- 
man.  His  thick,  abundant  white  hair,  crisply  curling 
at  the  ends,  accentuated  a  florid  coloring,  brows  and 
lashes  still  black,  and  was  in  turn  accentuated  by 
them.  He  was  a  big  man ;  but  just  as  all  his  facial 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  91 

contours,  though  full,  ran  to  distinction  of  features, 
his  bulk,  full  also,  ran  to  shape. 

"  By  the  way,  Ern,"  Phoebe  went  on,  "  mother 
always  looks  a  little  peeved  when  I  say  that.  She 
seems  to  think  that  I  ought  to  get  you  in  on  this 
beauty-contest  business.  I  dare  say  that  Sylvia 
agrees  with  her." 

"  My  wife  and  my  mother  are  not  the  only  women 
in  Maywood  who  would  say  that,"  Ernest  asserted. 
"Thousands  have  assured  me  of  their  support. 
Still,"  he  concluded  with  an  effect  of  magnanimity, 
"  I  don't  care  who  gets  the  cup  so  long  as  it  stays  in 
the  family." 

"  Well,  Ernest  certainly  has  my  vote,"  Sylvia  said 
with  a  spark  of  archness.  "  I'm  as  proud  as  I  pos- 
sibly can  be  of  his  looks — especially,"  she  added, 
"  since  I  began  to  lose  what  little  I  had  myself." 

"  Get  out!  "  Ernest  exclaimed.  "  You're  a  hun- 
dred times  prettier  than  you  ever  were." 

"  You  are,  Sylvia,"  Phoebe  agreed,  "  and  if  you 
would  only  dress  a  little  more  frivolously,  you  know 
what  I  mean — Daily-Hint-from-Paris  stuff — do  your 
hatr  loose  about  your  face,  the  way  you  used  to 
when  I  first  met  you,  you'd  be  a  wonder." 

Sylvia  was  a  little  woman,  slender,  blonde,  of  the 
rare  type  we  call  seraphic.  It  was  true  that  a  post- 
maternal  fading  had  set  in,  but  it  had  given  her 
quality,  not  quantity.  Where  formerly  she  had  been 


92  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

beautiful,  she  was  now  lovely,  with  that  appealing 
fragility  which  the  first  period  of  fading  often  gives 
women.  The  hectic  brilliancy  which  had  character- 
ized her  of  late  now  flooded  her  silver-ivory  color- 
ing with  rose,  starred  her  eyes  with  a  deeper,  a  more 
poignant  blue.  It  minimized  a  little  the  prim  effect 
of  her  tightly  knotted  hair  and  of  her  little,  Quaker- 
ishly-simple  house  dress. 

Maturity  and  maternity  had  worked  an  altogether 
different  process  with  Phoebe.  Phoebe's  hair,  which 
had  been  feathery  soft  in  lightness  and  amber  gold  in 
coloring,  was  like  a  shining  metal,  incisively  carved. 
Her  clear  skin,  which  though  it  showed  a  touch  of 
olive  had  always  been  colorless,  now  glowed  with 
permanent  roses.  Happiness  had  rounded  Phoebe 
out  of  her  girlish  slenderness;  had  gilded  her  lus- 
trously. Worry,  ill-health,  the  sorrow  of  her  little 
daughter's  death,  had  tightened  and  whitened  Sylvia, 
but  it  had  set  the  light  of  character  within;  and  that 
light  shone  through. 

"  Well,"  Phoebe  said,  u  I  always  said  when  you 
were  engaged  that  I  never  saw  two  people  so  much 
in  love  with  each  other.  It's  wonderful  how  you 
keep  it  up.  I  can't  imagine  you  quarreling.  Now, 
Tug  and  I  fight  like  the  dickens — at  least  I  do — Tug 
doesn't.  He's  a  very  unsatisfactory  husband  in  that 
respect.  He  simply  will  not  argue.  I'm  always  tell- 
ing him  it  amounts  to  marrying  a  woman  under  false 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  93 

pretenses.  I've  had  to  learn  to  sustain  a  quarrel  all 
by  myself.  Oh,  believe  me,  it's  quite  an  art,  but  I 
do  manage  it.  After  I've  raked  Tug  over  the  coals 
for  hours,  all  he  says  is,  '  You'll  be  sorry  for  what 
you've  said  when  you  think  it  over.'  I  could  tear 
him  limb  from  limb  when  he  says  that,  for  he's 
always  right.  The  moment  I  think  it  over  I  ant 
sorry.  Then  comes  the  struggle  to  make  myself 
confess  it  to  him.  That's  what  made  me  the  wreck 
of  the  husky  woman  I  was  once.  I'm  always  in  the 
position  of  having  to  apologize  for  what  I've  said, 
when  everybody  knows  it's  the  sacred  tradition  of 
our  sex  to  make  them  apologize  for  what  we've  said. 
Sometimes,  when  I  think  of  it,  I  feel  like  an  awful 
traitor  to  my  kind.  But  one  good  thing — Tug's  al- 
ways forgotten  about  the  quarrel  when  I  start  to  tell 
him  I'm  sorry." 

;*  Tug's  life  must  be  a  perfect  purgatory,"  her 
father  commented. 

"  It's  all  of  that,"  Phoebe  admitted,  "  and  then 
some.  But  he  doesn't  know  it." 

"  He  seems  to  thrive  on  it,"  Sylvia  remarked. 

"  Oh,  Sylvia,"  Phoebe  exclaimed  with  a  light  leap 
to  other  topics,  "  I  haven't  told  you  what  I  came 
for.  I  bought  you  a  present  today.  I  was  in  town 
shopping  this  morning  and  there  was  a  sale  of  negli- 
gees at  Durkin's,  and  they  were  so  cheap  and  so 
pretty  that  I  bought  one  for  myself  and  then  I 


94  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

bought  one  for  you.  It  will  get  out  here  tomorrow." 
"  A  negligee !  "  Sylvia  exclaimed  with  a  pleased 
inflection.  "  How  sweet  of  you,  Phoebe !  I  shall 
love  it!  I  haven't  had  a  new  negligee  since  I  don't 
know  when." 

"  And  that  reminds  me,"  Phoebe  went  on,  "  I  was 
getting  some  books  for  the  children,  and  I  came 
across  the  most  wonderful  series,  *  Nature  and  the 
Child,'  for  teaching  children  about  birds  and  flowers 
and  stars  and  minerals  and  all  that  truck.  I  prom- 
ised Toland  we'd  study  birds  together  this  summer, 
so  I  bought  the  series.  If  it  isn't  a  judgment  upon 
me  that  I  should  spawn  a  child  that's  crazy  about 
birds.  I  simply  hate  birds  myself.  Singing  in  the 
early  morning,  the  way  they  do  makes  me  wild.  As 
for  canaries — oh,  I  loathe  them!  All  my  life  I've 
made  fun  of  people  who  have  the  bird  mania.  Now 
I  suppose  for  the  next  two  months  I'll  be  wandering 
about  Maywood  chasing  disgusted  robins  from  tree 
to  tree,  a  bird  book  in  one  hand  and  an  opera  glass 
in  the  other.  But,  you  really  ought  to  have  this 
series,  Sylvia."  She  plunged  into  an  enthusiastic 
account  of  the  books. 

Sylvia's  eyes  deepened  with  that  look  of  absorbed 
interest  which  always  came  into  them  when  anything 
was  discussed  that  touched  her  children.  Mr.  Mar- 
tin listened,  putting  in  a  word  occasionally;  Ernest 
listened,  adding  nothing.  He  was  thinking  whether 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  95 

he  should  say  anything  to  Sylvia  about  the  twins 
when  his  father  and  sister  left;  and  if  he  did, 
how  he  should  put  it.  For  a  moment  that  talk  did 
not  look  so  easy  or  seem  so  necessary.  As  always, 
whenever  he  entered  his  house,  a  sense  of  peace,  of 
beauty,  of  an  exquisite  order  and  cleanliness  envel- 
oped and  permeated  him.  And,  as  he  contemplated 
his  wife's  face,  still  shot  with  the  flashing  expressions 
of  that  perturbing  vivacity,  his  resolution  weakened, 
melted  away.  There  were  many  other  considera- 
tions which  made  criticism  of  Sylvia  difficult  for  him. 
She  was  such  a  wife !  Such  a  mother ! 

They  occupied — the  Ernest  Martins — one-half  of 
a  two-family  house.  Sylvia  always  said  that  she 
choose  it  from  the  piazza  before  she  saw  the  inside 
because  the  street  looked,  not  so  much  as  though  it 
were  lined  with  houses,  as  with  real  homes.  It  was 
a  typical  middle-class  suburban  street.  The  scraps 
of  grass  that  surrounded  the  house  were  small 
enough  to  be  kept  always  in  the  emerald  and  velvet 
of  perfect  condition.  Vines  softened  architectural 
excrescences,  added  color  and  bloom.  Bushes  and 
flowers  mitigated  the  bareness  of  the  front  lawns. 
Hedges  of  lattice-work  fence  veiled  the  intimate  rev- 
elations of  the  back  yard.  Between  houses  and  be- 
yond back  yards,  the  passers-by  caught  glimpses  of 
the  Maywood  marshes.  Straight  ahead  Mt.  Fair- 
view  reached  up  from  deep-tinted  vegetable  gardens 


96  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

at  its  base  to  a  summit  tree-grown  and  of  a  respect- 
able height. 

The  house,  though  small-roomed  and  cut-up,  bore 
every  imprint  of  Sylvia's  fineness  and  fastidiousness. 
They  had  hired  it  before  it  was  completed,  and  in 
consequence  they  had  been  permitted  to  choose  the 
wallpapers.  Dull,  plain,  simple  effects,  they  mini- 
mized as  far  as  possible  the  effect  of  the  high  gloss 
and  higher  carving  of  the  woodwork.  Some  beauti- 
ful pieces  of  old-fashioned  furniture,  which  had  been 
Ernest's  share  of  his  Aunt  Mary's  possessions, 
stood  with  an  added  effect  of  stateliness  against  these 
quiet  "backgrounds.  Sylvia  had  the  gift  of  immacu- 
lateness.  Her  mahogany,  however  highly  polished, 
seemed  always  speckless.  The  muslin  curtains, 
which  fluttered  at  her  windows,  seemed  always  crisp. 
Her  kitchen  closet  offered  a  display  almost  as  at- 
tractive as  the  china  cabinet  in  the  dining-room.  Her 
bathroom  maintained  the  hygienic  cleanliness  of  a 
hospital.  And  whatever  the  season,  leafy  growths 
of  some  kind  arose  all  over  the  house  from  low 
Japanese  dishes. 

Outside,  their  place  consisted,  like  the  others  on 
the  street,  of  but  a  scrap  of  lawn.  Yet  Sylvia  had 
managed  to  grow  a  rose-garden  at  the  side;  its  full- 
bloom  fragrance  came  in  through  the  dining-room 
windows  now.  Next  door  was  a  vacant  house  with 
one  big  space,  mostly  grass-grown  in  front,  and 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  97 

another  space — bigger — mainly  orchard,  in  back. 
The  Taylor  house,  a  survival  of  an  amusing  type  of 
mid- Victorian  architecture,  peaked,  cupolaed  and  jig-* 
sawed,  had  remained  vacant  all  the  years  that  the 
Martins  lived  in  the  neighborhood.  It  was  typical  of 
Sylvia's  practicability  in  management  that  she  had 
rented  the  Taylor  barn  to  use  partly  as  a  play-house 
for  the  twins,  and  partly  as  a  shelter  for  the  cow 
which  she  immediately  purchased.  It  was  typical  of 
her  efficiency  in  management  that  she  engaged  as 
maid,  a  middle-aged  Irish  woman,  a  widow  with  a 
family  of  young  children,  who  gladly  took  care  of 
Molly  in  return  for  her  share  of  the  milk.  Oh,  Syl- 
via was  an  admirable  housewife,  a  devoted  mother,  a 
perfect  wife.  Of  all  these  things  Ernest  Martin 
thought  as  he  listened  to  the  conversation. 

i(  Where  are  the  twins?"  Phoebe  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"  In  the  barn,"  Sylvia  answered.  "  I'll  call  them." 
She  rang  a  little  silver  bell  which  stood  on  the  win- 
dow-sill close  to  her  hand.  Its  faint,  silvery  peal 
was  followed  by  the  immediate  appearance  of  two 
small  boys  in  the  doorway  of  the  barn  and  by  their 
quick  scamper  across  the  orchard. 

"  Goodness  !  "  Phoebe  ejaculated.  "  How  quickly 
they  come!  I've  had  the  hardest  fight  with  my 
children  to  make  them  come  to  me  the  instant  I  call. 
I've  named  Edward  the  '  Wait-a-Minute-Goop.'  " 


98  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  That's  one  thing  I'm  rigid  about,"  Sylvia  ex- 
plained. "  I've  told  the  boys  again  and  again  that 
they  must  come  the  instant  I  call  them,  because  I 
never  do  call  them  unless  it's  important.  It  might 
be  danger — a  fire  or  something  like  that.  Sometimes 
I  think  they  hope  it  is  a  fire." 

"Where  are  you  going  this  summer,  Sylvia?" 
Phoebe  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Sylvia  answered  in  an  uncertain 
tone.  "  I  can't  quite  make  up  my  mind.  Sometimes 
I  think  it  will  be  easier  just  to  stay  here." 

A  little  pause  came.  It  lengthened  itself  into  a 
silence  that  to  Ernest's  taut  sensitiveness  suddenly 
held  a  suggestion  of  embarrassment.  Mr.  Martin 
broke  it  by  clearing  his  throat. 

"  Sylvia,"  he  said,  "  you've  had  such  hard  sum- 
mers recently  and  such  expenses  with  doctors  and 
nurses — and  now  the  twins  are  so  big — I  wish  you 
would  let  me  send  them  to  a  boys'  camp  for  their 
vacation.  I'm  sure  it  would  do  them  good,  do 
you  good,  and  do  Ernest  good.  What  do  you  think, 
Ernest?" 

"  I  think  it  would  be  great,"  Ernest  answered 
without  hesitation.  He  understood  perfectly. 
Phoebe  and  her  father  had  planned  this  between 
them.  This  was  the  real  reason  for  their  walk 
together.  It  did  not  offend  him;  he  knew  they  were 
absolutely  right.  But  that  instinctive  loyalty  to  Sylvia 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  99 

which  had  never  swerved,  compelled  him  to  add, 
"  It's  up  to  Sylvia.  Whatever  she  says  goes." 

What  Sylvia  would  say  was  obvious.  Sylvia's 
face  changed  woefully.  The  pink  flush  that  her  vi- 
vacity had  brought  seemed  to  drop  out  of  her  cheeks, 
leaving  them  spotted  and  tallowy.  The  cerulean 
starriness  of  her  eyes  turned  to  a  slaty  blackness. 
Face,  body,  voice,  she  was  all  panic.  "  Oh,  father,  I 
couldn't — I  simply  couldn't  let  them  go  away  from 
me.  I'd  worry  so.  You  can't  imagine  what  I'm  like 
—Ernest  knows — he  can  tell  you.  He  and  the  twins 
are  all  that's  really  mine — except  Marion.  And  if 
anything  happened  to  one  of  them,  it  would  kill  me." 

Mr.  Martin  laughed.  "  But  nothing  would  hap- 
pen, Sylvia.  They'd  have  the  best  of  care;  they'd 
teach  them  how  to  row  and  paddle  and  ride  horses 
and  all  kinds  of  outdoor  things." 

"  I  think  they're  too  young  to  leave  me,  father," 
Sylvia  protested,  incipient  hysteria  bursting  into  her 
face.  "  I  really  do.  Besides,  Ernest  can  teach  them 
all  those  things." 

*  Well,  you  don't  have  to  decide  at  once,  Sylvia," 
Mr.  Martin  said  comfortingly.  "  Think  it  over." 

The  twins  had  in  the  meantime  come  running  up 
the  front  steps.  They  shut  the  screen  door  quietly 
and  deposited  their  hats  in  the  hall  closet.  They 
held  out  limp  little  hands  for  Phoebe  to  shake  and 
submitted  courteously  to  her  kiss.  Then  they  climbed 


ioo  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

onto  their  grandfather's  lap  and  sat,  one  on  each 
knee. 

In  that  juxtaposition,  the  resemblance  between  the 
quartet  of  Martin  males  was  striking. 

Phoebe  recognized  it  with  an  immediate  "  I've 
simply  got  to  have  another  son — one  that  looks  like 
the  Martin  family.  We're  much  better-looking  than 
the  Warburtons." 

Much  darker  in  type  than  their  grandfather,  the 
twins  were  unmistakably  his  blood  kin — a  statement 
that  their  grandmother  was  very  fond  of  making; 
although,  as  Phoebe  pointed  out,  its  cogency  was 
much  nullified  by  the  fact  that  she  made  the  same 
statement  about  all  her  grandchildren,  even  to 
Toland  Junior,  who  was  so  perfect  a  replica  of  his 
father  that  it  was  almost  comic.  The  twins  were 
handsome  children,  dark-brown  in  the  skin,  cherry- 
red  in  the  cheeks,  coal-black  in  the  hair  and  brows 
and  lashes.  Perhaps  it  was  this  clear-cut  swarthiness 
that  had  from  the  beginning  given  them  a  look  of 
natural  determination.  On  to  that  look,  however, 
had  been  superimposed  another  expression,  curiously 
infantile,  that  was  part  the  innocent  limpidity  of 
their  eyes  and  part  the  dewy  softness  of  their  lips. 

"  I'm  going  away  tomorrow  for  the  whole  day, 
Ernest,"  Sylvia  said  after  Phoebe  and  Mr.  Martin 
had  gone  and  the  children  had  run  upstairs  to  wash 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  lot 

for  dinner.  "  I  got  a  telephone  message  from  Ma- 
rion early  this  morning;  she  wants  me  to  come  over 
there." 

"  What's  happened?  "  Ernest  demanded.  "  Ma- 
rion not  feeling  well  again  ?" 

"  Well,"  Sylvia  answered  noncommittally,  "  she's 
going  to  the  doctor.  I've  decided  to  make  a  day  of 
it.  It's  such  a  journey  there  and  back.  The  children 
will  be  all  right,"  she  added  quickly,  as  though  fore- 
fending  criticism.  "  Mrs.  Fallen  will  take  them  to 
school  and  call  for  them." 

"  Of  course  they  will,"  Ernest  reassured  her.  "  In 
fact,"  he  added  as  though  the  result  of  an  after- 
thought, "  why  don't  you  try  letting  them  go  alone  to 
school  tomorrow?  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  you 
left  them  oftener  to  shift  for  themselves." 

"  But  they're  such  little  fellows,"  Sylvia  remon- 
strated. "  Why,  Ernest,  they're  only  babies." 

"  Pretty  big  babies !  "  Ernest  commented. 

"  That  reminds  me,"  Sylvia  observed  absently — 
his  remonstrance  had  already  rolled  off  her  con- 
sciousness, leaving  no  impression — u  I  must  tele- 
phone Haley  not  to  come  tomorrow  to  whitewash  the 
barn.  I  want  to  superintend  that  job.  He  came  this 
morning  and  fixed  up  Mollie's  quarters.  Mother's 
got  something  to  tell  her  darling  babies,"  she  greeted 
the  twins'  return.  Her  language  was  not  quite  baby- 
talk,  but  it  approximated  it.  She  had  a  special  tone 


'102  r  TH£*  ttAPPY  YEARS 

and  a  special  vocabulary  for  the  twins;  and  her  ten- 
derness blurred  her  words  a  little.  "  Tomorrow 
mother's  going  away  for  all  day  and  her  little 
boys  must  take  care  of  themselves  like  great  big 


men." 


u  Can  we   look  in  the   robin's  nest?"   Gordon 
asked  in  the  babyish  pipe  in  which  always  he  ad- 
dressed his  mother.     "And  the  catbird's  nest?" 
Edward  supplemented  in  the  babyish  treble  which  he 
reserved  alone  for  her. 

'  Yes,  lamb-babies,  if  you  are  very  careful,"  Syl- 
via consented. 

Ernest  listened  in  silence,  but  his  sense  of  depres- 
sion and  repression  returned.  He  could  not  help  con- 
trasting his  sons  with  their  cousin  Toland.  Phoebe's 
boy,  although  only  three  years  older,  seemed  a  man 
in  comparison.  Toland's  tone — a  palpable  imitation 
of  his  father's — was  round  and  deep.  It  came  with 
perfect  propriety  from  his  sturdy  figure.  Toland 
was  the  terror  of  the  neighborhood,  but  Ernest 
had  many  times  heard  him  described  as  "  some 
boy." 

"  I  guess  I'll  ask  Phoebe,"  Sylvia  went  on,  absent- 
ly skipping  from  subject  to  subject  as  had  become 
typical  of  her  in  her  abnormal  condition,  "  if  she'll 
let  me  return  that  negligee.  I'll  put  some  more 
money  with  it  and  get  that  child-nature  series  instead. 
I  want  to  take  up  botany  with  the  boys  soon.  It's 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  103 

such  a  beautiful  way  of  teaching  them  the  facts  of 


nature. " 


Ernest  said  nothing.  Again  he  was  getting  up  his 
courage  to  the  protesting  point. 

"  By  the  way,  Ernest,"  Sylvia  skipped  again,  "  the 
stork  brought  a  baby  to  the  Prendegasts  last  night,  a 
little  girl.  They  say  Mr.  Prendegast's  so  happy  to 
have  a  girl  after  three  boys.  He  was  just  wreathed 
in  smiles  when  he  went  down  the  street  this  morning. 
Everybody  was  waving  to  him  from  the  windows." 

"  That's  nice,"  Ernest  said.  "  How's  Mrs.  Pren- 
degast?" 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right,"  Sylvia  answered.  "  I  guess 
anybody  would  be  all  right,"  she  added  wistfully, 
"  when  she's  finally  got  what  she  wanted  more  than 
anything  else  in  the  world." 

They  were  verging  on  dangerous  ground  now. 
Sylvia's  eyes  still  filmed  at  the  thought  of  the 
little  daughter  who  had  never  breathed.  Today, 
however,  no  such  phenomenon  manifested  itself. 
Ernest  abandoned  the  idea  of  further  discussion  of 
the  twins.  Perhaps  after  consideration,  Sylvia 
would  accept  his  father's  offer  and  then,  after  all, 
training  children  was  the  woman's  job.  She  would 
make  many  mistakes  but  time  would  rectify  them. 
The  main  thing  with  him  was  that  Sylvia  should  be 
happy.  As  the  dinner  bell  rang,  he  dismissed  the 
whole  matter  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 


104  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

When,  decorously  piloted  by  Mrs.  Fallen,  the 
Martin  twins  returned  from  school  the  next  day,  they 
went  at  once  to  the  Taylor  barn.  The  lower 
floor  was  divided  into  two  compartments,  Molly's 
quarters  and  the  twins'  play-room.  The  latter  was 
big  and  clean.  Long  windows  made  it  light  and  airy. 
In  the  ceiling  was  a  square  opening,  from  which  pro- 
truded wisps  of  sweet-smelling  June  hay.  It  con- 
tained a  long,  low  table  at  which  the  twins  worked; 
two  little  chairs  in  which  they  sat;  and  a  comfort- 
able rocker  which  ordinarily  Sylvia  occupied.  Along 
one  end  of  the  room  stretched  a  toy  railroad;  at  the 
other  end  stood  a  big  packing  case  which  contained 
other  possessions.  On  the  table  were  arranged  rows 
and  rows  of  tin  soldiers;  some  open  cans  of  paint: 
two  full  of  flaming  scarlet,  two  full  of  brilliant  blue, 
others  half-full  of  brown,  green,  gray,  white.  A 
sheaf  of  paint  brushes  protruded  from  a  glass  of 
water. 

"  Let's  paint  some  more  of  the  soldiers,"  Gordon 
suggested.  His  voice  had  entirely  lost  its  babyish, 
piping  sound.  It  was  quite  business-like. 

"  Mother  didn't  say  we  could,"  Edward  answered 
in  a  voice  equally  practical  and  normal. 

"  She  didn't  say  we  couldn't,"  Gordon  suggested. 

"  All  right  then,"  Edward  agreed.     "  Let's." 

The  boys  slipped  on  their  overalls  and  fell  to 
painting.  They  dropped  remarks  from  time  to  time, 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  105 

but  in  the  main  they  worked  with  an  effect  of  concen- 
tration like  grown-ups.  Outside  the  hot  June  sun 
rolled  down  the  hot  June  sky,  began  to  shoot  long, 
dazzling  arrows  of  light  through  the  open  doorway. 
Suddenly  the  door  darkened.  "  Say,  what  are  youse 
fellers  doun?  "  a  voice  called. 

The  twins  looked  up,  startled. 

Two  boys  stood  in  the  doorway.  Not  any  taller, 
not  any  broader,  obviously  their  own  age — they  were 
very  different  in  appearance  from  Gordon  and  Ed- 
ward. The  twins  contemplated  them  intently  and  a 
look  of  surprise,  that  grew  to  wonder  and  ulti- 
mately held  a  shade  of  envy,  came  into  their  faces. 
They  wore — the  strangers — as  few  clothes  as  pos- 
sible. Bare-armed,  bare-headed,  bare-legged,  the 
most  important  article  of  their  attire  was  a  pair  of 
cast-off-looking  suspenders.  These  suspenders, 
greasy  but  importantly  buckled  and  of  a  tautness 
that  suggested  a  snapping,  reliable  elastic,  bridged 
the  hiatus  between  waists  too  tight  and,  so,  kept  open 
at  the  neck,  and  trousers  too  loose  and,  so,  bagging 
far  below  the  knee.  It  was  only  June;  yet  under  the 
dirt  on  their  faces,  these  boys  were  already  tanned 
and  burned.  The  bridge  of  their  noses,  the  tips  of 
their  ears,  showed  pinky,  freckle-specked  peeling 
areas.  One  wore  around  his  wrist  a  rag  promi- 
nently ridged  with  dry  blood.  The  other  had  hands 
rich  with  desirable  warts,  Their  slim  bodies  were 


106  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

packed  with  muscle.  They  chewed.  As  they  sur- 
veyed the  barn,  their  faces  grew  bright  with  curios- 
ity ;  yet  underneath  lay,  all  the  time  undisturbed,  the 
calm  of  conscious  power.  They  looked,  in  short, 
perfect  specimens  of  one  type  of  young  citizen  who 
either  by  fair  means  or  foul  compels  from  a  dull, 
tightly  stratified  urban  life  the  romance  and  adven- 
ture which  adolescence  craves. 

"  We're  painting  red  uniforms  on  these  soldiers,'* 
Gordon  answered.  "  They're  British." 

"  We're  going  to  fight  in  the  battle  of  Bunker 
Hill,"  Edward  obligingly  volunteered.  He  pointed 
to  a  map  of  Charlestown  drawn  in  white  chalk  on 
the  floor. 

"  Good  night,  nurse!  "  remarked  one  of  their  vis- 
itors. "  The  English  is  licked.  Ain't  that  the  dope, 
Mike?  It's  a  cinch  for  the  Americans." 

"  Sure,"  answered  Mike.  "  The  Americans  should 
worry.  My  father  was  just  after  telling  me  the 
Americans  would  have  got  beat  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  Irish  troops  that  came  over  from  Ireland  to 
help  them." 

This  purple  jargon  may  have  been  untranslatable 
to  the  Martin  twins.  At  any  rate,  they  kept  silence. 
They  listened  politely,  however,  their  eyes  limpid 
pools  of  interrogation  fixed  on  their  visitors.  This 
last  remark,  however,  seemed  to  demand  correction. 

"  Some  Irish  fought  in  our  revolution,"  Gordon 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  107 

said  courteously.  '*  They  were  very  brave  too. 
But  I  don't  think  there  were  any  Irish  troops  sent 
from  Ireland. " 

"Irish!"  exclaimed  Mike,  instantly  abandoning 
his  brilliant,  if  untenable,  claim.  "  The  Irish  won 
all  the  victories.  My  father  told  me  last  night  that 
the  last  thing  George  Washington  said  when  he  lay 
dying  was,  '  Be  good  to  the  Irish !  They  saved  the 
country!'  " 

Gordon  made  no  further  corrections.  Perhaps  he 
was  unfamiliar  with  George  Washington's  death-bed 
utterances.  But  he  and  his  brother  continued  to 
watch  their  visitors  with  interest.  Those  two  young 
gentlemen  advanced  from  the  doorway,  strolled 
about  the  room,  inventoried  with  a  careful  attention 
its  contents.  They  eyed  a  football  with  an  interest 
only  equaled  by  that  with  which  they  noted  the  base- 
ball mask.  They  studied  the  position  of  the  army, 
stationed  at  correct  historical  spots  on  the  map  of 
Charlestown,  with  a  marked  degree  of  concentra- 
tion. But  when  they  came  to  the  toy  track  and  ex- 
amined the  complications  of  its  rails,  the  collection  of 
cars  and  engines  standing  idly  near,  this  concentra- 
tion developed  into  another  emotion. 

"  Say,  where  do  youse  fellers  live?  "  Mike  asked 
suddenly,  turning  back  to  the  table.  "  This  joint  is 
vacant."  He  jerked  a  soiled  and  warty  thumb  over 
his  shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  Taylor  house. 


io8  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Over  there,"  Gordon  answered,  pointing 
through  the  doorway. 

Mike  and  Tim  surveyed  "  over  there  "  with  a 
closeness  of  observation  which  seemed  to  take  in 
everything  about  the  place. 

"  Say,  if  we  go  over  there,  will  your  mother  give 
us  a  drink  of  water?  "  Tim  inquired. 

"  My  mother  isn't  at  home,"  answered  the  guile- 
less Gordon.  "  She's  gone  in  to  see  Aunt  Marion 
in  West  Roxbury.  She  won't  be  back  until  nearly 


seven." 


'  Well,  there  must  be  somebody  there,  ain't 
they?"  Mike  demanded  in  what  purported  to  be 
indignation  at  this  domestic  carelessness.  "  Who's 
the  skirt  beating  it  out  of  the  back  door  now?  " 

"  That's  Mrs.  Fallen,"  Edward  answered  with  an 
innocence  equal  to  that  of  his  brother.  "  No,  there 
isn't  anybody  in  the  house  now." 

"Where's  she  goun?"  Tim  inquired. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Gordon.  "  She's  got 
her  coat  and  hat  on.  That  means  she  won't  be  back 
for  some  time." 

"  Then  there  ain't  nobody  there,"  Mike  con- 
cluded. 

"  No,"  Gordon  answered.  "  But  I'll  go  over  and 
get  you  some  water." 

"  Not  this  moment,"  Mike  interposed,  looking 
about  him  undecidedly  for  an  interval;  then,  "  Say, 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  109 

Tim,  I  guess  we'd  better  be  beating  it."  He  moved 
towards  the  door.  Tim  followed  and  they  disap- 
peared without  farewell. 

The  twins,  after  a  long,  lucid-eyed  stare  in  the 
direction  of  their  guests,  resumed  their  painting. 

Suddenly  the  door  darkened  again.  "  Say,"  Mike 
called,  "  don't  youse  want  to  come  out  and  see  our 
motorcycle?  We'll  give  yer  a  ride  maybe."  They 
disappeared. 

The  twins  dropped  their  paint  brushes  and  rushed 
out  of  the  door.  Quickly  as  they  disappeared  around 
one  corner  of  the  barn,  Mike  and  Tim  appeared 
around  the  other.  "  Say,  aren't  you  the  easy  ones !  " 
Mike  commented  disparagingly,  as  he  and  Tim 
dashing  into  the  barn,  slammed  the  door  in  their 
faces. 

Gordon  and  Edward  stopped  stock-still,  stood  for 
a  paralyzed  instant.  They  looked  hard  at  the  door 
as  though  they  expected  it  to  open,  but  it  remained 
closed.  At  last  Gordon  knocked  gently,  "  Will  you 
please  let  us  in?  "  he  said  in  the  courteous  accents 
of  his  careful  training.  ;'  We  want  to  finish  painting 
the  British  army." 

"  Aw,  shut  up,  you  two  sissies !  "  came  from  the 
barn.  "  Go  home  and  do  your  sewing!  " 

"Sissies!"  "Sewing!"  It  was  obvious  that 
neither  of  these  terms  pleased  the  twins.  They  stared 
at  each  other  for  a  perplexed  moment.  Into  the 


no  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

infantile  lucidity  of  their  gaze  flowed  a  vague  alarm, 
and  then,  suddenly,  as  though  each  caught  fire  from 
the  other,  the  alarm  broke  into  a  blaze  of  resent- 
ment. "  You  get  out  of  this  barn!"  Gordon  ex- 
claimed finally.  '  Yes,  you  get  out  of  this  barn  1  " 
Edward  supplemented.  But  their  words  were  with- 
out force,  and  at  the  end,  their  tone  ran  down  from 
command  to  entreaty. 

"  Aw,  shut  up  !  "  the  barn  vouchsafed.  "  Fade 
away!  There's  a  gang  of  girls  playing  dolls  on  the 
next  street — why  don't  youse  go  over  there  ?  That's 
where  you  fit." 

This  remark,  as  obviously  as  the  others,  failed  of 
soothing  effect.  The  twins  retreated  uncertainly.  A 
little  distance  from  the  barn,  they  paused  as  with  one 
accord. 

'*  What  do  you  suppose  they're  doing  in  there?  " 
Gordon  demanded. 

;<  They're  going  to  steal  our  things,"  Edward 
answered  promptly.  "  Our  masks  and  soldiers  and 
tracks  and  engines  and  cars  and — and  everything." 

Gordon  looked  at  his  brother  and  his  brother 
looked  at  him,  and  again  as  their  glances  met — they 
kindled.  That  blaze  in  the  eyes  spread  in  a  dark 
flush,  seemed  to  burn  off  the  infantile  sweetness 
which  training  had  superimposed  on  Gordon's  face. 
'  Well,  they  won't  get  out  of  this  yard  with  them," 
he  announced  with  determination.  He  ran  to  the 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  in 

door,  kicked  on  it  furiously.  {  You  let  us  in  and  be 
quick  about  it !  "  There  was  no  entreaty  in  his 
voice  now — he  bawled. 

"  Like  ducks,"  came  from  the  barn.  "  Say, 
Percy,  you  and  your  brother  Clarence  chase  your- 
self around  to  where  those  girls  are  playing,  and 
maybe  they'll  start  some  kissing  games." 

Gordon  turned  to  his  brother;  the  last  hint  of  his 
babyhood  vanished  in  the  black  scowl  which  trans- 
mogrified his  look.  A  blood  of  rage,  equally  black, 
was  washing  every  trace  of  infantile  gentleness  from 
Edward's  face. 

"  I  ain't  going  to  let  them  steal  none  of  our 
things,"  Gordon  said.  The  unaccustomed  double 
negative  seemed  in  his  case  to  have  the  effect  of 
profanity. 

"  I  ain't  neither,"  Edward  agreed  firmly.  "  Let's 
go  over  to  the  house  and  get  father's  pistol.  I  know 
where  he  keeps  it.  We  can  shoot  them." 

"  No,"  Gordon  decided  judicially.  "  That  might 
kill  them;  then  we  would  be  arrested.  No,  I  tell 
you  what  let's  do !  Let's  climb  into  the  loft  through 
the  window  and  throw  the  hay  down  on  them. 
What's  that?" 

'  They're  winding  up  our  engines,"  Edward  an- 
swered. "  All  right.  We'll  hafter  get  the  ladder 
outta  the  cellar — and,  say,  we  gotta  be  awful  quiet." 

The  twins  sped  across  the  field  to  the  back  of  their 


ii2  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

house  and  disappeared  into  the  basement.  They 
reappeared  in  a  few  minutes,  carrying  a  short,  light 
ladder.  With  an  accumulating  caution,  they  ap- 
proached the  barn,  listened  carefully  at  the  door. 
From  within  came  the  noise  of  toy  trains  running 
along  the  track,  colliding  and  derailing  each  other. 
Still  moving  very  quietly,  the  twins  placed  the  ladder 
against  the  barn  wall,  climbed  up  a  short  distance  to 
the  second  story,  disappeared  through  the  window. 
The  hay,  which  softened  the  fall  of  their  bodies, 
nearly  filled  the  loft.  One  side,  however,  was 
cleared.  A  row  of  buckets,  full  of  whitewash,  stood 
there  ready  for  use.  Working  their  way  very  slowly 
towards  the  opening  in  the  center,  they  peered  over 
the  edge. 

Directly  below  Mike  and  Tim  lay  flat  on  their 
stomachs.  As  the  twins  watched  them,  they  began 
systematically  to  rip  up  the  rails,  disconnect  them, 
place  them  in  a  heap  at  one  side.  This  move  seemed 
to  act  as  an  incentive  to  battle  to  the  onlookers. 
With  simultaneous  movements,  but  working  with  an 
unexpected  strength  and  speed,  the  twins  seized  each 
a  huge  wad  of  hay,  thrust  it  through  the  opening, 
seized  another,  thrust  that  through,  seized  another 
and  thrust  that  through. 

Twin  curses  rose  from  below. 

"  What  the "  Mike  began  in  language  that 

promised  to  be  far  from  elegant  and  "  We'll  smash 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  113 

your  jaw  for  this,"  Tim  proceeded  in  phrases  that 
predicated  an  equal  emotional  unrestraint. 

But  the  hay  continued  to  pour  down,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment, haydust  in  their  eyes  and  noses — and  every 
time  they  opened  them — in  their  mouths,  the  invad- 
ers did  little  but  wallow  about  on  the  floor.  At  last, 
however,  they  scrambled  to  their  feet,  swayed,  fell, 
scrambled  up;  swayed  and  fell  again.  From  their 
lips  poured  an  unbroken  train  of  profanity,  and  the 
Martin  twins,  annexing  in  the  instant  a  whole  new 
vocabulary,  responded  with  clearness,  force,  em- 
phasis— and  in  kind. 

Suddenly  Mike  reeled  out  of  the  radius  of  the  tor- 
rent of  hay.  His  arm,  reaching  for  support, 
struck  a  can  of  crimson  paint.  Shaking  the  hay  out 
of  his  eyes,  he  peered  upward  and  hurled  the  can.  It 
hit  Gordon  square  on  the  cheek.  The  blood  poured 
down  his  face  and  the  paint  poured  over  his  body. 
Tim  followed  this  with  a  tin  of  blue  paint  that  ren- 
dered Edward  unrecognizable.  Then  working  to- 
gether, Mike  and  Tim  seized  the  other  cans  and 
hurled  them  upwards.  Green,  brown,  gray,  white 
— they  added  their  hues  to  the  twins'  brilliant  dec- 
oration. Much  of  the  paint  dropped  backwards 
and  the  invaders  were  hoist  with  their  own  sticky 
petard. 

For  an  instant,  this  violent  attack  gave  the  Martin 
boys  pause. 


ii4  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

The  hay  had  given  out;  they  glanced  wildly  about 
for  further  ammunition.  Suddenly,  Gordon  seized 
one  pail  of  the  whitewash.  Edward,  imitating  him 
blindly,  seized  another.  They  poured  the  viscid 
white  fluid  onto  the  heads  of  the  enemy. 

This  was  too  much. 

The  invaders,  dripping  hay,  paint  and  whitewash, 
made  for  the  door,  dashed  it  open,  ran  through  the 
yard  to  the  street,  and  vanished  cursing.  The  war- 
riors descended  from  above,  pursued  the  enemy  with 
triumphant  yells,  gazed  after  them  until  they  disap- 
peared. Then  in  a  sudden  silence  that  held  a  quality 
of  apprehension,  they  returned  and  surveyed  the 
colorful  wreck  of  their  pleasant  play-room.  Last 
they  looked  at  each  other. 

Sylvia,  returning  a  little  later  than  her  husband, 
found  him  reading  a  magazine  in  the  living-room. 

"  Mrs.  Fallon  wasn't  here  when  I  got  home,  Syl- 
via," Ernest  explained  at  once,  "  but  there  was  a 
note  under  the  door  saying  that  her  sister's  child  had 
had  a  fit  and  they  had  telephoned  for  her  to  come. 
She  said  the  roast  was  cooking  all  right  and  would  I 
take  the  vegetables  off.  I  did." 

Ernest  spoke  lightly,  but  he  was  scarcely  consider- 
ing what  he  said — Sylvia  was  so  strange.  Never 
had  he  seen  that  new  effect  of  physical  brilliancy — 
light,  color,  spirit — allied  with  so  marked  a  condi- 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  115 

tion  of  mental  preoccupation.  There  was  something 
remote  about  her;  an  element,  so  new  and  inexpli- 
cable, in  her  air  that  it  made  her  alien,  a  being  from 
another  world.  His  heart  sank. 

As  in  a  trance,  not  taking  her  things  off,  Sylvia 
moved  about  the  living-room,  mechanically  rearrang- 
ing it.  "  I  know  the  child,"  she  said.  "  She's  a 
delicate  little  thing.  I'm  so  sorry.  I'll  go  down 
there  tomorrow."  Then  after  an  instant  of  medita- 
tion, "The  children  must  be  in  the  barn  still;  let's 
go  over  and  get  them." 

She  did  not  speak  again,  but  in  a  kind  of  rose- 
flushed,  starry-eyed  daze  walked  out  of  the  house 
and  into  the  orchard.  "  They're  very  quiet,"  she 
said  under  the  shadow  of  the  apple  tree.  Then  she 
fell  to  silence  again.  "  I  wonder  what  they've  been 
doing  all  this  time,"  came  after  another  bemused 
pause. 

Suddenly  Gordon's  voice,  clear  as  a  bell  and  with- 
out a  trace  of  prattle,  rang  out  through  the  still- 
ness. "Ed,"  he  said,  "that  was  a  damn  good 
fight!" 

"  Gordon,"  Edward  responded  with  a  tone 
equally  bereft  of  infantile  quality,  "  it  was  a  hell  of 
a  fight!" 

Then  the  twins  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

Gordon  looked  as  though  he  had  been  scalped. 
Red  paint  covered  his  head.  It  had  flowed  down 


ii6  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

his  neck  in  all  directions,  over  the  silken  tie,  over 
the  linen  shirtwaist  that  was  Sylvia's  handiwork. 
Red  paint  absolutely  covered  him.  Edward  looked 
less  bloody,  but  more  futurist.  The  blue  paint  had 
hit  him  on  the  chest,  and  run  down  his  body  until 
even  his  shoes  and  stockings  were  splashed.  It  had 
slipped  through  the  opening  in  his  overalls  onto  his 
curduroy  trousers.  To  this  had  been  added  in  ec- 
centric designs  gray  and  green  and  brown.  Ernest 
gave  them  one  glance;  then,  in  terror  of  the  effect 
on  his  wife,  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

Sylvia  stood  still — stood  still  for  a  long  moment. 
She  looked  at  the  boys,  who  began  to  sputter  ex- 
planations, almost  as  though  they  were  strangers; 
looked  at  them  carefully,  one  at  a  time,  looked  at 
them  without  a  change  of  expression.  When  she 
spoke  it  was  with  a  mild  "  I  guess  they're  not  hurt 
much.  I  think  we'd  better  take  them  upstairs,  Er- 
nest, and  put  them  right  into  the  tub." 

Ernest's  alarm  grew  as  Sylvia's  extraordinary 
composure  continued  to  maintain  itself.  She  listened 
with  calmness  to  the  garbled  account  of  the  fight, 
which  the  twins,  talking  in  impassioned  language, 
at  the  same  time  and  at  the  tops  of  their  voices, 
recited  many  times.  Even  after  the  paint  had  been 
scraped  from  their  faces  and  Gordon's  forehead 
showed  a  bloody  lump  as  big  as  a  hen's  egg  and 
Edward's  chest  a  purple  bruise  as  wide  as  his  hand, 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  117 

she  failed  to  develop  tremor.  In  fact,  she  con- 
curred without  a  quiver  at  Ernest's  suggestion  that 
he  do  the  rest  of  the  cleaning  alone,  and  she  disap- 
peared as  soon  as  he  began  his  work.  Ernest 
scrubbed  strenuously  for  an  hour. 

He  put  the  boys  to  bed;  cleaned  the  bathroom. 
Then  he  started,  his  heart  in  his  mouth,  down  the 
stairway. 

"  Come  in  here,  Ernest,"  Sylvia  called  unexpect- 
edly from  their  bedroom.  "  I  want  to  talk  with 
you." 

Ernest  advanced  to  the  doorway,  stopped  abruptly 
there — stared. 

Sylvia  had  taken  off  the  suit  she  had  worn  to 
Marion's.  She  had  put  on  the  new  negligee  that 
Phoebe  had  sent  her.  It  was  of  liberty  silk  of  an  ex- 
quisite glittering  French  blue,  tied  with  ribbons  of  an 
equally  glittering  French  pink.  It  had  many  lacy, 
frilly  ruffles,  knotted  bows  and  flying  streamers. 
The  effect  of  strangeness  that  she  had  given  on  en- 
tering the  house  was  not  all  her  mood  Ernest  dis- 
covered. She  must  have  stopped  somewhere  to  have 
her  hair  done.  It  was  coiled  close  but  with  elabo- 
ration. It  had  not  been  waved,  but  it  dropped 
about  her  brow  and  onto  her  neck  many  wavy  wisps 
of  its  own  curls.  She  sat  under  a  light  which  seemed 
to  pour  color  onto  her  hair  and  then  to  refract  it  in 
diamond  sparks.  She  was  industriously  polishing 


ii8  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

finger  nails  which  she  had  already  buffed  to  an  ex- 
traordinary gloss.  Her  eyes,  as  she  lifted  them 
from  her  work  to  her  husband's  face,  were  so  lumi- 
nous that  it  was  as  though  extra  lights  suddenly 
burst  in  the  room. 

"  Don't  bother  about  the  boys,  Sylvia "  Ern- 
est was  beginning  when  she  interrupted  him. 

"  I'm  not  bothering  about  them,  and  I  don't  in- 
tend to.  I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  something 
quit  different.  Ernest,  I  told  you  a  lie  yesterday." 
She  smiled  with  another  increase  of  her  brilliant 
luminosity.  "  At  least,  it  wasn't  quite  a  lie.  You 
jumped  to  a  conclusion,  and  I  let  you  stay  there. 
I  didn't  go  to  the  doctor  on  Marion's  account;  I 
went  on  my  own.  I  wanted  to  be  sure — and  I 
didn't  want  to  say  anything  to  you — until  I  was 
sure.  But — Ernest — the  thing  I've  hoped  for 
and  prayed  for  all  these  months  is  now  going  to  hap- 
pen. And  Ernest — Dr.  English  says  that  I'm  in 
perfect  condition  this  time,  and  he  can't  see  how 
there  can  be  any  danger  possibly." 

Ernest  stood  still  in  the  doorway.  He  did  not 
speak.  He  did  not  try  to  speak.  He  only  looked  at 
her. 

"  And,  Ernest,  I  see  now  I've  been  wrong  in  the 
way  I've  brought  the  boys  up — I  didn't  mean  to  be 
so  foolish,  but  I  was  so  afraid  I  was  never  going 
to  have  any  more  children.  The  thought  that  I 


SYLVIA'S  SISSIES  119 

might  lose  one  of  them  haunted  me  night  and  day. 
I've  been  so  alone  all  my  life,  and  I've  always  wanted 
a  family  so ;  but  now  when  I  think  of  another  baby 
coming,  all  that  worry  fades  away.  I  have  such  a 
sense — oh,  such  an  enormous  sense — of  security  and 
serenity  and  content  and  happiness.  I  know  that 
everything  will  be  all  right.  I  know  that  everything 
will  take  care  of  itself.  It's  wonderful!  How  I 
wish  you  could  experience  it,  Ernest!  But  I  guess 
this  is  something  that  men  can  never  have,  only 
women !  It  compensates  for  all  the  agony  it  means 
to  be  a  woman — every  bit  of  it.  And  when  I  think 
of  the  attention  I  must  give  the  new  baby — oh,  it 
makes  me  realize,  as  nothing  else  did,  that  there  are 
certain  social  adjustments  that  boys  must  make  for 
themselves — and  girls  too,  perhaps.  Anyway,  the 
boys  are  going  to  school  alone  and  going  to  play 
alone  hereafter.  I  have  no  fear  for  them  any  more. 
I  want  them  to  learn  to  swim  and  ride  and  drive 
and  play  baseball  and  football  and  tennis — and  box 
even — anything  that's  necessary  for  them  to  make 
fine  big  brothers  for  the  little  sister  that's  coming. 
And,  Ernest,  if  I'm  going  to  have  a  little  daughter, 
I  want  to  keep  young  and  pretty  for  her  sake.  I'm 
going  to  Boston  tomorrow  and  buy  me  a  really  friv- 
olous new  summer  suit.  I  can  wear  it  for  quite 
a  while  you  know,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  my  nails 
looking  pretty,  and  have  my  hair  waved  every  week 


120  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

until And  I'm  so  happy  that  I  want  to  do  some- 
thing gay  at  once.  I  want  you  to  get  tickets  for 
tomorrow  night  for  that  musical  comedy,  '  The 
Champion  and  the  Amazon.'  " 


! 


I 

CHAPTER  IV 

THE  LONG  CARRY 

"O  O  don't  worry  any  more,  Ernest!  n  Sylvia  said. 
C/  Her  voice  held  a  gay  note  of  command;  but 
underneath  it  ran  a  sober  current  of  entreaty. 

Ernest  smiled  a  perfunctory  reassurance.  "  No, 
•I  won't  worry." 

"  Good-by,  dear,"  Sylvia  concluded. 

"  Good-by." 

Sylvia  gazed  for  a  minute  or  two  after  her  hus- 
band as  he  walked  down  the  street  to  the  station. 
As  the  distance  between  them  increased,  the  spirit 
seemed  to  flow  out  of  him.  After  a  while,  a  faint 
crumple  crooked  the  splendid  erectness  of  his  figure. 
By  corresponding  slow  degrees,  the  radiance  which 
had  illumined  her  face  as  she  lifted  it  to  his  good- 
by  kiss,  evaporated  from  it.  She  sighed.  But  turn- 
ing toward  the  house,  her  spirits  lifted  again.  From 
within  came  the  sound  of  the  revelries  which  always 
characterized  the  twins'  Saturday  morning.  Sylvia 
strolled  up  the  walk  slowly.  And  then  another  seri- 
ous consideration  seized  her.  Again  her  face 
sobered. 


122  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Inside,  "Boys!"  she  called.  "  Come  down- 
stairs! There's  something  in  the  kitchen  I  want 
to  show  you." 

The  two  sturdy,  virile  black-browed  little  lads 
came  tumbling  into  view.  Gordon  arrived  down- 
stairs first,  by  the  simple  expedient  of  taking  to  the 
banisters.  "  The  fellers  are  coming  over  for  football 
pretty  soon,"  he  informed  his  mother.  "  They  said 
they'd  come  right  after  breakfast,"  Gordon  supple- 
mented him. 

;<This  won't  take  long,  sons,"  Sylvia  promised 
them.  "  And  you'll  like  it." 

She  led  the  way  through  the  hall  into  -the  big, 
old  kitchen.  Maggie  was  doing  the  dishes  with 
a  great  swish  of  soapy  water  and  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  an  Irish  song.  The  sunlight  poured  on  her 
draining-board  covered  with  steaming  glasses.  Syl- 
via continued  into  the  back  hall. 

"  Oh,  I  know !  "  Gordon  said  with  all  the  elec- 
tric thrill  of  a  good  guess  in  his  voice. 

"  I  don't,"  Edward  declared,  mystified.  And 
then,  guessing  in  his  turn,  "  Oh  yes,  I  do " 

"  Lady's  kittens  have  come,"  Gordon  interrupted. 

"  That's  it,"  Sylvia  admitted.  She  knelt  beside 
the  big  clothes-basket  in  the  corner.  "  Four  of 
them !  See  what  darlings  they  are  !  Careful,  son !  " 
as  Gordon  made  an  impulsive  dive  into  the  furry 
mass.  "  Let  me  take  them  out  for  you." 


THE  LONG  CARRY  123 

Her  long  white  hands  moved  with  a  gentle  firm- 
ness among  the  tiny,  languidly-squirming  forms.  One 
by  one,  she  lifted  the  kittens  from  the  basket  to  the 
floor.  They  dragged  about,  squeaking  discon- 
solately. Lady  put  her  front  paws  on  the  top  of  the 
basket  and  peered  apprehensively  over  its  edge. 
"  We  aren't  going  to  hurt  your  babies,  little  mother," 
Sylvia  soothed  her.  "  We  wouldn't  hurt  them  for 
the  world.  Be  gentle  with  them,  boys.  Remember, 
Lady  is  still  weak  and  very  much  frightened  for 
fear  you'll  injure  them."  Imitating  their  mother, 
the  boys  stroked  the  purblind  little  creatures  with 
faint,  delicate  touches  of  their  forefingers.  Lady 
watched  every  move  with  spurting  ears  and  a  pivot- 
ing head. 

"  Now  I  think  we'll  put  them  back,"  Sylvia  de- 
cided suddenly.  One  by  one,  she  placed  the  little 
balls  of  fluff  in  the  basket.  Lady  cuddled  down  to 
the  demands  of  their  immediate  hunger.  '  When 
did  they  come  ?  "  Gordon  demanded. 

"  In  the  night,"  Sylvia  answered.  "  Maggie 
found  them  when  she  got  up.  She  said  Lady  acted 
as  proud  as  a  peacock." 

"  Did  it  hurt  much?  "  Edward  asked. 

"  Lady  looks  very  tired.  Do  you  see  how  thin 
and  drawn  her  face  is?  We  must  be  very  gentle 
with  her  for  a  while." 


124  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  How  soon  will  their  eyes  be  open?  "  asked  the 
exact  and  accurate  Edward. 

"  In  a  few  days,"  Sylvia  answered  absently. 
"  Now,  boys,  come  into  the  living-room  for  a  mo- 
ment. I've  something  to  tell  you." 

"  But  mother,  football "  Edward  began. 

"  YouVe  got  plenty  of  time,"  Sylvia  assured  him. 
She  led  the  way  into  the  living-room  which,  like 
every  room  that  Sylvia  furnished,  had  something  ex- 
quisitely conventual  about  it.  She  seated  herself  in 
the  big  old  wing-chair;  drew  the  little  boys  one  on 
each  side  of  her;  sat  holding  in  each  hand  a  tiny, 
red  rough  paw.  As  she  talked,  she  looked  from 
one  face  to  the  other;  and  she  reflected,  as  she  had 
reflected  many  times  before,  that  one  might  have 
been  a  mirrored  vision  of  the  other.  The  coloring 
of  Edward  duplicated  that  of  Gordon;  the  chiseling 
of  Gordon  duplicated  that  of  Edward.  And  yet 
how  conclusively — but  subtly — they  differed!  They 
differed  in  expression  to  the  precise  degree  and  in 
exactly  the  way  that,  temperamentally  and  intellectu- 
ally, they  differed;  Edward  all  quiet-faced  astute- 
ness; Gordon  all  starry-eyed  calm.  Edward  ques- 
tioned every  detail  of  his  universe;  Gordon  was 
"  native  and  endued  "  to  wonder. 

"  My  little  sons,"  Sylvia  began,  smiling,  "  do  you 
remember  how,  last  month,  a  baby  sister  came  to  live 
with  Tony  Dorrance  ?  " 


THE  LONG  CARRY  125 

The  twins  nodded,  uninterested.  At  every  sound 
outside,  their  eyes  sought  the  window  as  though  it 
opened  a  vista  into  football.  Sylvia  pressed  the 
little  red  paws  emphasizingly. 

"  Well,  that  same  wonderful  thing  is  going  to 
happen  to  us.  In  a  few  months,  a  baby  will  come  to 
live  here  in  this  house." 

She  stopped  and  examined  the  two  little  faces. 
They  bore  the  revelation  characteristically.  Gor- 
don's wide  luminous  eyes  grew  if  possible  wider  and 
more  luminous.  Edward's  eyes  narrowed  to  atten- 
tion, his  brows  ruffled  to  question.  '*  Will  it  be  a 
boy?  "  he  asked  hopefully. 

"  It  may  be  a  baby  brother.  I  hope  it  will  be  a 
baby  sister,  but  I  can't  be  sure." 

"  I'd  rather  it  would  be  a  brother,"  Edward  de- 
cided promptly. 

"  So'd  I,"  agreed  Gordon.  "  Girls  aren't  any 
good — teachers'  pets  and  tattle-tales  and  'fraid- 
cats."  He  paused  a  moment  and  added  conclusively, 
"  All  of  them." 

"  No,  some  sisters  are  better,"  Edward  disagreed 
meditatively.  "  Tom's  sister  Elsie  makes  candy 
every  Saturday  morning." 

;<  It  will  be  a  long  time  before  this  sister  will  make 
any  candy."  Sylvia  laughed  in  spite  of  herself. 
"  Remember  she  will  be  little — not  quite  so  little 
perhaps — but  almost  as  helpless  as  Lady's  kittens." 


126  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

:<  Will  she  be  red,"  Gordon  asked  disapprovingly, 
"like  Tony's  sister ?" 

"  Probably,"  Sylvia  answered. 

:<  Will  her  eyes  be  open?  "  Edward  demanded. 

Sylvia  laughed  again.  "  Yes,  and  I  hope  they'll 
be  as  blue  as  the  sky." 

4  What  will  her  name  be  ?  "  Edward  went  on  with 
what  threatened  to  be  a  rain  of  practical  inquiries. 

"  Elizabeth-Marian,"  Sylvia  answered.  "  Eliza- 
beth, after  your  Grandma  Martin;  and  Marian, 
after  Tante  Marian.  And  we  shall  call  her  Beth. 
But  if  it's  a  boy — well,  what  shall  we  call  it,  if  it's  a 
boy?" 

"  Jess  Willard,"  Edward  answered  promptly. 
And,  "  Ty  Cobb,"  Gordon  immediately  followed 
him. 

;<  There  might  be  more  than  one,"  Sylvia  sug- 
gested. "  You  two  little  boys  came  together." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  Gordon  begged,  "  don't  let's  have 
two  girls !  " 

"  Couldn't  we  have  four  babies  all  at  once — just 
like  Lady?  "  Edward  offered  hopeful  solution.  "  We 
could  drown  the  girls." 

Sylvia  continued  to  laugh.  "  Suppose  they  were 
all  girls?" 

"  We  might  keep  one"  Gordon  permitted. 

"  No,"  Edward  differed.  "  Let's  drown  them  all, 
if  they're  girls." 


THE  LONG  CARRY  127 

Sylvia's  mirth  bubbled  on.  "  But  you  see  father 
and  mother  both  want  a  little  daughter.  Our  hearts 
are  set  on  its  being  a  Beth." 

Gordon  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  mother's  face.  The 
luminosity,  that  normally  filled  them,  was  glowing 
deeply,  as  always  happened  when  a  train  of  thought 
threatened  to  explode  in  question.  Sylvia  waited. 

"  Mother,  where  do  babies  come  from?  "  he  de- 
manded. 

Involuntarily  Sylvia  sighed.  She  had  been  expect- 
ing this.  In  fact,  deliberately  she  had  led  up  to  it. 
But  somehow  she  had  thought  the  question  would 
come  from  the  definite-minded,  explorative  Edward, 
not  from  the  vague,  wool-gathering  Gordon.  For  a 
moment,  this  tiny  unexpectedness  nearly  threw  her 
from  the  track  of  her  purpose.  But  arousing  her- 
self, she  started  determinedly  on  the  story,  half  anal- 
ogy, half  fable,  that  she  had  invented  for  them. 

*  You  remember  how  I  told  you  a  few  weeks  ago 
that  Lady  was  going  to  give  you  a  family  of  little 

kitties  and I  told  you  that  you  must  be  very 

careful  the  way  you  handled  Lady  because It's 

like  that  with  all  mothers:  kitty-mothers,  puppy- 
mothers,  bear-mothers,  lion-mothers,  and  women- 
mothers But  although  it  means  pain  and  suf- 
fering, it  seems  to  be  the  way  it  must  happen " 

This  had  been  a  moment  and  a  narrative  for  which 
Sylvia  had  planned  ever  since  the  birth  of  the  twins. 


128  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

And  yet  now  she  told  it  half  absently.  For  suddenly 
it  was  not  the  faces  of  her  sons  that  she  saw;  but 
Ernest's  figure  growing  more  and  more  careworn  in 
aspect  as  it  retreated  down  the  hill.  Indeed,  it  was 
not  to  the  twins  that  she  addressed  herself,  but  to 
Ernest's  drawn  look.  It  was  not  into  the  innocent 
orbs  which  kept  so  trustingly  their  steady  gaze  on 
her  that  she  stared,  but  through  them,  into  Ernest's 
troubled  blue-gray  eyes. 

"  God  has  made  a  little  room  right  under  the 
mother's  heart — so  that  her  heart  can  keep  watch 

— a  little  room  as  warm  and  soft  and  safe 

And  in  that  little  room,  the  baby  grows  bigger  and 

stronger  and  stronger  until Then  comes  a  day 

when  the  baby  is  ready  to  enter  the  world We 

call  this  being  born " 

How  simple  it  all  sounded,  reduced  to  the  lowest 
terms  and  clothed  in  the  language  of  imagery!  Oh, 
if  for  Ernest's  sake,  it  could  only  be  as  simple  as 
this  ...  as  effortless.  .  .  .  Oh,  to  save  him 
the  long,  dead  black  wait  .  .  .  that  beating, 
scarlet  agony  at  the  end.  .  .  . 

"  And  when  the  time  comes  for  the  baby  to  be 
born — just  that  moment,  not  an  instant  before,  not 
an  instant  after — but. at  exactly  the  right,  beautiful 
moment — God  opens  the  little  door  in  that  soft, 
warm,  safe  room  under  the  mother's  heart  and  the 
baby  comes  out  in  the  world/'  Sylvia  paused. 


THE  LONG  CARRY  129 

Ernest's  care-worn  face  disappeared.  The  faces, 
wholly  interested,  entirely  receptive,  a  little  puzzled, 
of  her  two  sons  came  back  into  her  vision. 

They  were  still  receiving  the  revelation  charac- 
teristically. It  was  like,  she  remembered,  the  first 
time  they  had  seen  a  flying-machine.  Gordon  ac- 
cepted it  serenely  and  lucidly,  as  one  of  the  expected^ 
magics  of  a  magical  universe;  like  giants  and  mer- 
maids and  fairy  godmothers.  But  Edward,  appalled1 
at  this  contradiction  of  every  law  of  his  practical 
world,  had  actually  turned  pale;  had  rushed,  as 
though  for  sanctuary,  to  a  storm  of  hysterical  ques- 
tions. 

It  was  Edward  who,  immediately  annexing  her 
phraseology,  demanded,  "  When  will  our  brother 
come  into  the  world?  "  * 

"  About  Christmas,  I  think."  Sylvia  smiled  hap- 
pily. "  This  is  my  Christmas  gift  to  you — a  little 
sister." 

"  I  hope  it  will  be  a  brother,"  Edward  reiterated 
obstinately. 

:t  We  can  give  it  away,"  Gordon  suggested,  "  if 
it's  a  girl." 

"  No,"  Sylvia  decided.  "  There's  one  thing  that 
absolutely  can't  be  given  away,  and  that's  a  little 
newborn  baby.  Now,  there  are  two  things  more 
that  I'm  going  to  say  to  you,  boys.  Everybody 
knows  what  I've  just  told  you — about  that  little  room 


130  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

where  the  baby  lives  before  it's  born.  Everybody. 
Everybody!  But  because  everybody  knows  it,  no- 
body speaks  of  it.  You  see  there's  really  no  reason, 
for  talking  about  a  thing  that  everybody  knows. 
So  I  want  you,  my  sons,  to  promise  me  two  things. 
One  is  not  to  talk  about  this  to  anybody.  And  the 
other  is :  if  as  you  think  it  over — now  or  for  years 
to  come — you  have  any  questions  to  ask  about  it, 
you'll  ask  me.  My  sons,"  Sylvia's  voice  sank  to 
a  solemn  deepness,  "  I  give  you  my  word  that  I 
will  always  tell  you  the  truth.  Will  you  promise  me 
these  two  things?  " 

The  little  boys  promised  readily  enough. 

But  after  the  twins  had  raced  off  to  their  exigent 
football,  Sylvia  began  again  to  see — not  Edward's 
astute,  inquiring  look,  nor  Gordon's  luminous  under- 
standing one — but  Ernest's  drawn,  worried  aspect. 

Sylvia  herself  entertained  no  doubt  as  to  the  out- 
come of  the  next  few  months. 

But  Ernest And  small  wonder!  The  birth 

of  the  twins  had  been  a  long  and  agonizing  session 
from  which  he  had  emerged  almost  as  gray  and 
ghastly  as  his  wife.  Sylvia  herself  did  not  like  to 
think  of  that  black  and  murky  period  which  followed 
the  birth — and  death — of  her  little  daughter.  Er- 
nest never  referred  to  it.  And  by  that  token,  Sylvia 
guessed  the  exact  degree  of  agony  which  his  Gol- 


THE  LONG  CARRY  131 

gotha  had  held  for  him.  Her  face  shadowed  as  she 
thought  of  it;  but  out  of  that  shadow,  without  an 
instant  of  preparation,  suddenly  flashed  the  serene 
happiness  of  her  smile. 

For  the  love  which  Ernest  bore  Sylvia,  and  which 
Sylvia  bore  Ernest,  was  one  of  those  loves  that  are 
the  wonder,  envy,  doubt,  scoff,  according  to  the  tem- 
peraments, of  those  who  see  it.  Among  their 
friends,  their  union  was  jokingly  described  as  "  the 
perfect  hitch. "  Ernest  Martin  was  distinctly  a 
monogamous  type.  Sylvia's  face  had  wiped  off  the 
slate  of  his  mind  the  face  of  every  girl  that  destiny 
had  previously  drawn  there.  And  no  other  woman's 
face  had  since  threatened  her  reign.  Whenever  Er- 
nest looked  at  his  wife,  the  expression  in  his  eyes 
deepened  to  tenderness.  That  look  always  met  an 
answering  look  in  Sylvia's  eyes — worship  and  un- 
derstanding and  complete  trust.  But  lately  another 
expression  had  come  to  crowd  the  worship  of  Er- 
nest's gaze.  That  expression  was  fear.  Six  months 
of  an  augmenting,  anguished  anticipation  lay  behind 
Ernest.  Three  months  of  an  accelerating,  anguished 

anticipation  lay  before  him.    And  at  the  end 

How  to  save  him  from  it?  ) 

Sylvia  rose,  walked  listlessly  out  of  doors  into  the 

autumnal  disarray  of  the  garden.    She  moved  about 

absently,  gathering  flowers  for  the  house;  blood-red 

dahlias;    bronze-brown    asters;    bachelor    buttons, 


132  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

earnestly  azure;  salvia,  excitedly  scarlet.  She  ap- 
proached the  bed  of  California  poppies.  Multitudes 
of  tiny  buds,  twisted  like  spills  of  golden  satin,  lay 
flexed  awaiting  the  sun.  One  alone  had  begun  to 
unwind  orange-tawny  wings.  And  as  Sylvia  stood 
before  it,  a  miracle  happened. 

There  came  a  faint  delicate  flutter  and Im- 
perfection had  changed  to  perfection.  Youth  had 
turned  into  maturity.  A  bud  had  become  a  flower. 

Sylvia  stood  stock-still  before  the  miracle  for  a 
long  time.  Obviously,  she  was  thinking  hard;  for 
her  brows  knitted  and  her  teeth  gnawed  her  lips. 
And  then,  suddenly,  an  idea  seemed  to  thrill  up  from 
her  subconscious  to  her  conscious  mind.  It  brought 
with  it  a  lucid  brightening  of  her  eyes,  a  jerked  lift 
of  her  breast.  It  held  her  for  a  moment  at  what 
seemed  a  high  pitch  of  question;  and  under  that 
stress,  her  color  mounted  and  her  lips  parted.  Then 
obviously  the  question  resolved  itself  to  determina- 
tion. She  walked  briskly  back  to  the  house.  And 
as  she  walked,  she  smiled  rapturously. 

Once  inside,   she  went  immediately  to  the  tele-^ 
phone;  called  up  both  her  docter  and  her  nurse. 
She  supplemented  these  two  long  talks  with  a  third, 
equally  protracted. 

"You  solemnly  promise  me,  Harriet  Mabie?" 
she  concluded  the  last  one. 


THE  LONG  CARRY  133 

"  I  solemnly  promise  you,  Sylvia  Martin,"  Miss 
Mabie  promised. 

The  months — there  must  be  three  of  them — went 
by  slowly.  Sylvia  made  her  life  as  busy  as  possible. 
As  long  as  she  could,  she  went  out  with  Ernest. 
But  necessarily,  her  activities  grew  circumscribed; 
her  days  increasingly  quiet.  A  little  walk;  a  little 
puttering  in  the  garden;  sewing;  her  twilight  stories 
with  the  twins;  an  occasional  attendance  at  the  club; 
an  occasional  appearance  at  a  small  tea — this  was 
her  program. 

All  the  time,  Ernest's  evening  absences  grew  stead- 
ily fewer  and  fewer  until  he  was  never  absent.  Syl- 
via tried  every  system  she  knew,  from  secret  wifely 
diplomacy  to  direct  personal  appeal,  to  get  him  out 
of  the  house.  But  to  her  gentle  feminine  obstinacy 
he  opposed  his  quiet  masculine  stubbornness.  Sylvia 
could  not  move  that  dead  weight.  After  a  while  she 
gave  up  the  effort. 

Then  developed  the  inevitable  period  of  frantic 
telephoning.  Not  obviously  frantic,  of  course;  all 
the  boiling  anxiety,  carefully  disguised  under  casual 
inquiry,  as: 

u  Oh,  Sylvia,  I  called  up  to  find  out  if  there's  a 
package  of  papers  on  the  desk.  I  was  afraid  I 
might  have  left  them  on  the  train."  Or,  "  Say, 
Sylvia,  suppose  you  could  go  for  a  little  walk,  if  I 


134  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

came  out  early  this  afternoon?  "  Or,  "  Oh,  Sylvia 
— I  saw  some  fine  celery  in  the  market  today.  I 
thought  you  might  want  to  know  that  I'm  bringing 
some  out  for  dinner." 

To  these  bombardments,  Sylvia  opposed  her  un- 
alterable serenity,  her  invariable,  "  I'm  feeling 
splendid,  this  morning,  Ernest."  Or,  "  Oh,  yes, 
I'd  love  a  little  walk  this  afternoon." 

Then  followed  the  period,  equally  inevitable,  of 
Ernest's  sudden  appearances,  early  in  the  afternoon. 
"  I  felt  a  little  done  up  today  somehow,"  he  would 
account  for  them;  or,  "  I  felt  rotten — as  though  I 
had  a  cold  coming  on."  Or,  "  There  wasn't  much 
doing  in  the  office  this  afternoon;  so  I  thought  Yd 
beat  it  home  and  get  a  nap." 

"  Ernest,"  Sylvia  said  one  night,  "  it's  out  of  the 
question  my  going  out  socially  any  longer.  But  I 
feel  so  well  and  this  waiting  round  bores  me  so, 
that  I  would  like  to  do  something  in  the  evenings. 
There  is  one  thing  I  really  would  find  very  enter- 
taining." 

"  Well,  for  the  love  of  Mike,  what  is  it?  "  Ernest 
demanded. 

"  This  will  amuse  you,  I  know.  But  I'd  just  love 
it,  and  I  want  you  to  say  yes.  It's  whist!  I  like 
whist  and  I  used  to  play  a  fairly  good  game  once — 
a  really,  rather  complicated  signal  game.  Old  Mrs. 
Whitcomb  was  saying  the  other  day  that  Mr.  Whit- 


THE  LONG  CARRY  135 

comb  was  just  dying  for  some  whist.  He's  a  shark, 
you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Ernest  admitted  grimly.  "  I've 
played  against  him  on  the  train." 

"  Yes,  he's  a  shark,"  Sylvia  went  on.  "  But  he 
isn't  one  of  those  hateful,  disagreeable  sharks.  He 
doesn't  criticize  you.  He  doesn't  mind  playing  with 
anybody  as  long  as  you  give  your  whole  attention  to 
the  game  and  try  to  win.  And  he  never  calls  you 
down;  although  he  will  give  you  all  the  instruction 
in  the  world  if  you  ask  it.  He's  an  eccentric  old 
thing.  But  do  you  know,  Ernest,  I  like  him.  I  have 
always  liked  him." 

"That's  queer,"  Ernest  observed,  "you  hate  so 
many  people." 

"  And  I've  always  had  a  feeling  that  he  liked  me." 

"That's  even  queerer,"  Ernest  added.  "So 
many  people  hate  you." 

"  Well,  I  was  thinking — "  Sylvia  ignored  her  hus- 
band's levity,  "  Ernest,  will  you  stop  into  the  Whit- 
combs'  on  your  way  to  the  train  this  morning  and 
ask  them  if  they'll  come  in  this  evening  to  play  with 
us?" 

The  whist  foursome,  thus  started,  grew  first  into 
a  three-nights-a-week  and  then  to  a  e very-nigh t-a- 
week  performance,  in  which  Sunday  was  the  only 
respite.  The  imperturbable  Ernest  and  the  phleg- 
matic Mrs.  Whitcomb  submitted  without  a  murmur 


136  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

to  the  nightly  beating,  which  the  strategic  Mr.  Whit- 
comb,  reinforced  by  the  tactical  Sylvia,  administered 
to  them.  Sylvia  enjoyed  her  small  triumph  enor- 
mously. "  Do  you  know,  Ernest,"  she  said  again  and 
again,  "  I  really  love  whist.  I  have  always  loved  it. 
After  we  get  going,  I  could  play  all  night.  And  Mr. 
Whitcomb  is  a  partner  after  my  own  heart.  Nothing 
would  stop  him  but  death.  Some  fine  evening,  after 
Miss  Elizabeth  Marian  Martin  has  become  a  big, 
bouncing  young  lady,  I'm  going  to  start  at  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  keep  on  playing  till  I've 
had  enough,  if  it  takes  till  sunrise." 

'  Well,  you  certainly  are  developing  some  game," 
would  be  Ernest's  comment. 

Again  and  again  at  the  breakfast  table,  Sylvia 
said,  "  Really,  we  stopped  too  soon  last  evening. 
Oh,  I  wanted  so  much  to  play  longer." 

But,  "  Every  night  at  eleven  for  you,  young  lady," 
Ernest  laid  down  the  law,  "  until  we  are  a  bigger 
family." 

And,  "  Ernest,  you  don't  know  how  fond  I'm  get- 
ting of  the  Whitcombs,"  Sylvia  said,  in  one  form  or 
another  constantly.  "  Isn't  it  funny  how  you  get 
to  know  some  people  at  once  and  how  you  never 
really  know  others  until  something  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary brings  them  out?  Here  we've  lived  opposite 
the  Whitcombs  for  ten  years,  and  I  suppose  if  I 
hadn't  thought  of  playing  whist  with  them,  I  never 


THE  LONG  CARRY  137 

would  have  gotten  really  acquainted  with  them.  I 
always  thought  of  Mrs.  Whitcomb  as  a  feather-bed, 
down-puff,  lamb-stew  sort  of  woman;  and  of  Mr. 
Whitcomb  as  a  sort  of  queer,  dried-up  old  thing. 
But,  oh,  how  kind  they've  been  to  me  and  how  con- 
siderate !  I  can't  tell  you  all  the  good  advice  that 
Mrs.  Whitcomb  has  given  me  or  the  sensible  sug- 
gestions she's  made !  After  all,  Ernest,  a  woman 
who  has  brought  up  five  boys  well,  is  no  fool.  And 
as  for  Mr.  Whitcomb — it  seems  as  though  he  was 
thinking  of  my  comfort  every  minute !  " 

"  Yes,  they're  regular  people,"  Ernest  agreed. 
"  I'm  glad  I've  had  this  chance  to  get  to  know  them. 
I  hope  I  have  an  opportunity  of  doing  something 
for  them  some  time." 

But  multiply  these  gentle  efforts  as  she  would,  Syl- 
via never  really  succeeded  in  getting  Ernest's  mind 
off  its  major  worry;  and  she  knew  it.  That  Ernest 
watched  her  stealthily,  she  was  all  the  time  perfectly 
aware.  Any  sudden  change  in  the  expression  of  her 
face  brought  to  his  figure  a  momentary  petrifaction. 
Any  sudden  move  of  her  body  tore  his  attention 
from  whatever  he  was  doing.  And  as  her  physical 
languor  grew — with  an  accelerating  and  augment- 
ing sense  of  unease — his  watchfulness  increased. 

One  night  the  whist  game  started  with  a  sudden 
dash  of  gaiety;  for  Sylvia  unloosed  a  vein  of  talka- 
tiveness, unusual  in  her,  "  Oh,  how  I'm  enjoying 


138  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

this !  "  she  said  again  and  again.  "  Somehow,  I 
never  felt  more  like  playing  whist  than  I  do  this 
evening!  " 

"No  wonder — with  the  cards  you're  holding!" 
Mrs.  Whitcomb  remarked  caustically.  "  Ernest,  she 
stacks  them!  " 

1  That  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  it!"  Sylvia 
maintained.  "  Ernest,  I'm  sorry  for  you !  Mrs. 
Whitcomb,  I'm  a  yellow  dog  but  this  is  a  grand 
slam.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones  that  Mr.  Whitcomb 
and  I  are  going  to  beat  you  to  a  frazzle.  Ernest, 
you've  got  to  call  that  eleven-o'clock  rule  off  to- 
night! For  once,  I'm  going  to  get  all  I  want  of 
it!" 

It  was  just  as  she  started  to  deal,  a  little  later,  that 
Sylvia  arose  suddenly  from  the  table.  "  My  good- 
ness! I  nearly  forgot It's  just  come  to 

me "  she  exclaimed,  unaccustomedly  ejaculatory. 

"  I  ought  to  have  telephoned What  an  idiot 

I  am  to  say  that  I'll  do  anything  when Here, 

Ernest,  you  deal  for  me !  And  don't  you  dare  to 
break  my  run  of  luck!  I've  got  to  call  somebody 
up " 

She  hurried  into  the  back  room;  opened  a  low- 
voiced  conversation  over  the  telephone.  Conclud- 
ing her  talk,  she  rejoined  the  whist  players  long 
enough  to  make  the  trump  royal  spades  and  to  give 
her  jubilant  partner  the  opportunity  of  sweeping  to 


THE  LONG  CARRY  139 

victory  on  a  second  grand  slam.  While  this  was 
going  on,  she  returned  to  the  telephone;  took  up 
more  conversations.  She  had  scarcely  rejoined  the 
whist  players  when  the  bell  rang.  Mr.  Whitcomb 
was  dealing.  Sylvia  herself  opened  the  door. 

"  Oh,  Harriet!  "  she  exclaimed.  "How  glad  I 
am  to  see  you!  How  did  you  know  that  I  wanted 
somebody  at  this  exact  moment?  We  are  having 
a  game  of  whist.  Would  you  mind  taking  my  hand 
for  a  few  minutes  ?  There's  something  Fd  forgotten 
all  about  that  I  simply  must  do  before  I  go  to  bed." 

"  You're  a  sweet,  tactful  thing,  Sylvia."  Miss 
Mabie's  rather  severe  spinsterly  face  broke  into  an 
understanding  smile.  "  But  I'm  not  going  to  break 
up  the  party.  I'll  just  sit  here  and  watch  you." 

"  But,  Harriet,  I'm  telling  you  the  truth,"  Sylvia 
insisted.  (  There  are  some  Christmas  boxes  that  I 
solemnly  promised  Miss  Farr  that  I'd  have  packed 
and  ready,  if  she'd  send  a  messenger  for  them  in  the 
morning.  I  forgot  all  about  it  until  this  moment. 
It  won't  take  me  a  jiff  to  do  it  now;  but  I  don't 
want  to  have  to  get  up  for  it  tomorrow.  You  see 
I  stay  in  bed  till  about  ten." 

"  All  right."  Miss  Mabie  stepped  into  Sylvia's 
place;  shuffled  the  cards;  handed  them  to  Ernest  to 
cut;  dealt  them:  all  these  with  the  decisive  move- 
ments of  a  practised  hand. 

"You'll  tire   yourself   all  out,    Sylvia,"    Ernest 


HO  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

prophesied.  "  Why  don't  you  wait  and  let  me  do  it 
for  you?  " 

Sylvia  laughed.  "  Ernest,  you're  the  noblest  of 
created  husbands;  but  I'd  hate  to  receive  the  Christ- 
mas box  that  you  packed.  No,  it  really  ought  to  be 
done  tonight;  and  it  happens  that  I  feel  just  like 
doing  it." 

"  If  you  want  any  help "  Ernest  persisted. 

Both  Mrs.  Whitcomb  and  Miss  Mabie  reinforced 
him  with  polite  murmurs. 

Sylvia  thanked  the  ladies,  but  declined  their  kind 
offers  with  haste  and  decision.  On  her  way  past 
her  husband,  however,  she  stopped  to  lay  a  little 
kiss  on  both  his  cheeks.  "  I  shan't  need  any  help, 
goose !  "  She  added  casually,  "  I'm  going  to  shut 
this  door.  I've  felt  a  little  draft  all  the  evening." 

"  Yes,  I  feel  it  too,"  Miss  Mabie  admitted. 

Sylvia  disappeared.  Her  absence  grew  prolonged. 
Once  or  twice,  Ernest  said,  "  Do  I  hear  somebody 
walking  in  the  hall?  "  But  always  Miss  Mabie  an- 
swered quietly,  "  I  don't  think  so.  I  can't  hear 
anything." 

The  game  went  on  and  on.  Miss  Mabie,  it  de- 
veloped, was  a  player.  And  under  the  spur  of  her 
masterly  offensives,  Mr.  Whitcomb  outdid  himself. 

About  ten,  the  door  of  the  living-room  opened. 
Maggie  appeared.  "  Mrs.  Martin  says  that  she 
feels  a  little  tired  and  that  she's  going  to  bed,  sir. 


THE  LONG  CARRY  141 

But  she  says  to  please  keep  on  with  your  game,  as 
she  can't  hear  a  sound  up  there." 

They  kept  on.  And  suddenly  Ernest  and  Mrs. 
Whitcomb  ran  into  so  extraordinary  a  run  of  luck 
that  they  were  inspired  to  reinforce  it  by  an  un- 
wonted brilliancy  of  playing.  The  exhilaration  of 
their  success  carried  the  game  over  the  line  of  ten 
o'clock,  over  the  ridge  of  eleven  o'clock,  over  the 
height  of  twelve  o'clock,  and  one,  towards  two 

Mrs.  Whitcomb  had  just  finished  saying,  "  Oh, 
let's  have  another  rubber!  Don't  look  at  your 
watch,  Silas!  We  might  just  as  well  be  hung  for 

a I  never  enjoyed  a  game  more  in  my  life !  " 

when  again  the  living-room  door  opened. 

It  was  not  Maggie  this  time.  Instead  it  was  a 
cool-looking,  blonde  young  woman  in  a  nurse's  uni- 
form. 

Ernest's  cards  dropped  out  of  his  hands.  "  Miss 
Dinsmore !  How " 

Miss  Dinsmore's  keen  gray  eyes  sparkled.  "  Mr. 
Martin,"  she  announced,  "  your  wife  begs  me  to 
present  her  compliments  and  to  say  she  would  like 
you  to  step  upstairs.  She  wants  to  introduce  you  to 
Miss  Elizabeth  Marian  Martin,  who  has  just  ar- 
rived, weighing  nine  pounds;  mother  and  daughter 
both  doing  well." 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  NEST  EGG 

IT  was  a  marvelous  June  day.    But  the  fact  that 
it  was  the  middle  of  the  week  could  not  alone 
account  for  the  unnatural  silence  of  the  Warburton 
household.    The  weather  had  seemingly  lured  every 
member  of  the  family  to  secret,  exhilarating  devices. 

"  Cely  and  Bertha-Elizabeth  are  tramping  up 
Mount  Fairview,"  Phoebe  answered  her  mother's 
question.  "  Toland  is  playing  baseball  somewhere, 
and  Edward — to  Toland's  intense  disgust — tagging 
after  him.  Micah  is  at  Sylvia's.  Phoebe-Girl  is — 
I  don't  know  where  Phoebe-Girl  is."  Phoebe 
stopped  to  meditate.  "  Now,  where  can  that  child 
be?  When  did  I  see  her  last?  Oh  yes — just  after 
lunch  she  started  off  with  that  little  Daisy  Brooks 
she's  so  crazy  about — she  said  to  play  paper  dolls  at 
Daisy's." 

"  Well,"  Mrs.  Martin  remarked,  "  if  you  can 
keep  count  of  Phoebe-Girl's  activities,  you  do  well." 

"  I  don't  pretend  to,"  Phoebe  asserted  lightly. 
'*  She's  the  most  active  of  my  children  and  sometimes 
I  think  the  strongest." 

142 


THE  NEST  EGG  143 

11  She's  had  fewer  sicknesses  certainly/1  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin agreed.  "  Oh,  what  a  day  this  is !  It  is  the 
kind  of  day  I  most  love  and  the  season  that  I 
guess  is  my  favorite  after  all.  I  love  the  daisies 
and  buttercups.  And  when  the  sky  is  full  of  those 
great  heavy  clouds — all  crowded  together  like  that 
— it  always  takes  me  back  to  my  youth  and  makes 
me  think  of  those  dreams  you  have  then — long  sea 
journeys — and  the  ocean  being  filled  with  white  sails 
— and  you  going,  you  don't  know  where,  except  that 
in  your  fancy  you're  always  putting  in  at  strange 
ports  and  seeing  wonderful  strange  cities  and  pic- 
turesque strange  people." 

"  I  know,"  Phoebe  said  with  a  little  agreeing  nod: 
"  I  remember  that  period  so  well.  Every  girl  has 
it,  I  guess.  That  feeling  that  comes  to  you  that  all 
life  lies  before  you  and  the  whole  world  is  open  to 
you  and  anything — simply  anything — may  happen. 
It  seems  as  though  it  was  all  chance;  and  yet  you 
have  the  feeling  that  chance  will  favor  you  in  send- 
ing you  all  kinds  of  adventures  and  romances  and 
beautiful  journeys.  And  then  you  get  engaged — and 
married — and  suddenly  the  universe  contracts  into 
one  tiny  world  which  holds  your  babies.  All  those 
dreams  of  your  future  and  those  yearnings  for  some- 
thing different  evaporate  out  of  your  mind." 

11  But  there  is  something  better  that  comes  to 
take  their  place,"  Mrs.  Martin  affirmed. 


144  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Yes,  something  better,"  Phoebe  agreed.  "  Some- 
times I  wish  you  could  have  both,  though.  I  don't 
see  why  life  can't  be  managed  so  you  could." 

"  For  women,  you  mean?  "  Mrs.  Martin  queried. 

1  Yes,  particularly  women,"  Phoebe  elucidated. 
"  For  the  chances  are,  they'll  never  have  it  again." 

Mother  and  daughter  sat  on  the  side  piazza  which 
faced  the  tennis  court.  The  street  cut  across  their 
left  and  to  their  right  beyond  the  garden — a  delicate 
phantasmagoria  of  the  spring  colors — marsh  country 
leaped  by  green  squares,  bounded  with  lines  of  silver 
ditches,  to  the  very  foot  of  Mount  Fairview.  It  was 
the  longest  day  in  the  year,  and  the  sun  was  still 
far  from  setting.  It  held  a  brilliant  place  high  in 
the  sky,  from  which  it  flooded  the  world  with  daz- 
zling impulses  of  light. 

Mrs.  Martin,  as  in  conversation  was  her  uncon- 
scious but  subtly  flattering  habit,  considered  Phoebe's 
words  thoughtfully. 

"  I  expect  that's  the  new  generation  talking,"  she 
decided  after  a  while.  "  I  can't  go  with  you  on  that. 
But  then  that's  the  way  life  is.  I  remember  I  had 
ideas  that  my  mother  never  would  agree  with.  And 
you  have  ideas  that  I  can't  accept.  And  I  expect  the 
time's  coming  when  Bertha-Elizabeth  or  Phoebe- 
Girl  will  come  home  with  some  scheme  for  educa- 
tion or  work  that  will  make  your  blood  run 
cold." 


THE  NEST  EGG  145 

"  I  expect  they  will,"  Phoebe  admitted.  "  And 
I'm  trying  to  prepare  myself  for  them,  whatever  they 
are !  " 

"  Don't  say  that,  Phoebe,"  her  mother  warned 
her  excitedly.  u  Whatever  you  say,  don't  say  that. 
That's  the  strangest  part  of  it.  If  it  were  anything 
you  could  anticipate But  it  never  is.  It's  al- 
ways the  last  thing  in  the  world  that  you  would 
imagine  and  just  the  last  thing  in  the  world  that 
you  want.  It  breaks  up  all  your  plans  and  often 
seems  as  though  it  were  going  to  ruin,  your  whole 
scheme  of  life.  What's  that  tramping  I  hear  in  the 
distance?  " 

Phoebe  listened,  her  head  cocked  attentively. 
"  Oh,  just  people  coming  up  from  the  marsh  sec- 
tion," she  explained  lightly.  "  I  wonder  which  one 
it  will  be.  Will  it  be  Toland  who  will  want  to 
retire  to  a  monastery;  or  Bertha-Elizabeth  who  will 
decide  to  go  into  the  movies;  or  Phoebe-Girl  who 
will  insist  on  nursing  in  the  leper  colony  in  Molokai; 
or  Edward  who  will  take  up  aviation;  or  Micah 
who'll  become  an  interpretive  dancer?  Well,  at 
least  there  are  only  five  possibilities." 

"  Only  five  now,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  with  em- 
phasis. 

u  Only  five,  mother,"  Phoebe  repeated  firmly. 
u  My  family  is  the  exact  size  that  I  want  it.  It's 
not  going  to  be  any  bigger." 


146  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  I've  heard  those  statements  before,"  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin remarked  dryly. 

"  All  right,  mother — wait  and  see !  " 

"  What  can  those  people  be  doing?  "  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin demanded  curiously.  "  Nobody's  talking.  And 
there  seem  to  be  children  with  them Some- 
body's crying " 

"  Oh,  they'll  come  past  the  house  in  a  moment," 
Phoebe  answered  unnotingly.  *  Then  we'll  see  what 
it's  all  about.  But  honestly,  mother,  I  think  five  is 
a  very  nice  size  for  a  family,  don't  you?  " 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed. 

"  Three  boys  and  two  girls,"  Phoebe  summed  up 
her  jewels  with  satisfaction.  "  A  very  nice  arrange- 
ment. Perhaps  I  would  have  liked  Toland  to  be 
the  oldest  one  in  the  family.  But  I  suppose 
that's  because  I'm  prejudiced.  I  was  older  than 
Ern  and  I  always  looked  down  upon  him  and  patron- 
ized him  and  bossed  him.  I  used  to  yearn  for  a 
big,  handsome,  stunningly  dressed — clean — brother 
that  I  could  be  proud  of;  instead  of  a  younger  bro- 
ther who  was  always — sartorially  speaking — a  dis- 
grace. And  then  I  think  if  a  girl  is  the  oldest  one 
in  the  family,  she  always  has  so  much  responsibility." 

"  That's  true,"  Mrs.  Martin  asserted.  "  I  know 
that  from  experience.  I  was  the  oldest  in  our  family, 
you  know." 

"  But  if  there  was  ever  any  one  born  to  be  an 


THE  NEST  EGG  147 

oldest  sister,"  Phoebe  went  on  analytically,  "  it's 
Bertha-Elizabeth.  She  really  mothers  the  rest  of  the 
family.  If  I  were  to  die,  I  truly  believe  that  child 
could  run  the  house  and  take  care  of  the  family." 

"  I  believe  she  could,"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed  with 

her  daughter.  "What's  that Why,  they've 

opened  the  gate !  They're  coming  here !  Phoebe! 
Oh,  my  God !  "  For  Phoebe  had  leaped  to  a  height, 

suddenly  towering — and  her  face She  was 

like  one  standing  up  dead. 

Four  men,  bearing  between  them  a  door,  were 
coming  up  the  path.  On  the  door  lay  something 
human-shaped  —  that  dripped  —  covered  with  a 
blanket.  Ahead,  hatless,  white-faced  and  wild-eyed, 
wiping  streaming  tears  with  her  kitchen  apron,  came 
Mrs.  Connors.  Other  women,  terrified  and  silent, 
brought  up  the  rear;  a  queue  of  frightened  children 
followed;  Daisy  Brooks  sobbing. 

Phoebe  darted  a  jagged  look  of  agony  at  Mrs. 
Connors.  "  Bertha-Elizabeth !  "  she  said.  But  it 
was  herself  she  questioned  and  her  lips  were  stone. 
Her  feet  seemed  not  to  touch  the  ground  as  she  flew 
down  the  path. 

"  No,  woman  dear,"  Mrs.  Connors'  writhing  lips 
answered,  "  Phoebe-Girl." 

;<  It's  no  use  to  say  those  things  to  me,  mother, 
they  make  no  impression  on  me.  And  I  don't  be- 


148  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

lieve  them.  My  child  is  dead.  Nothing  can  alter 
that.  And  nothing  will  ever  reconcile  me  to  it.  Of 
course  you're  being  kind,  I  realize  you  have  to  say 
those  things  to  me.  I  have  said  them  myself  to  other 
people.  All  my  life !  It's  a  sort  of  silly  convention 
that  keeps  up — like  how-do-you-do  when  you  meet 
people.  How-do-you-do  means  nothing.  You  don't 
really  care  how  they  do.  The  worst  bore  I  ever 
knew  was  a  man  who  when  you  said  *  How  do  you 
do?  '  answered  by  telling  you  how  he  did.  I  appre- 
ciate that  you  mean  only  to  be  comforting  in  saying 
what  you  are  saying.  But  it  doesn't  do  any  good.  I 
don't  believe  it.  My  child  is  dead.  My  life  is 


over." 


"Oh,  but,  Phoebe,  my  little  girl,  other  people 
have  lost  children — and  life  has  gone  on  and  they've 
been  happy  again." 

"  Other  people !  What  other  people  have  suf- 
fered interests  me  very  little  now,  mother.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  them  nor  care  anything  about 
them.  All  I  know  is  about  myself.  And  I  shall 
never  get  over  this — never,  never.  My  heart  is  like 
lead.  I  know  I'm  going  to  carry  that  load  around 
with  me  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  Phoebe  dear!  "  And  for  a  moment  the  tender- 
ness of  her  feeling  wiped  from  Mrs.  Martin's  voice 
the  hoarseness  of  her  grief.  "  Phoebe  dear,  your 
mother  knows  what  she's  talking  about,  I  lost  a 


THE  NEST  EGG  149 

child  once — little  Albert.  You  never  saw  him,  so 
you  can't  remember  him — but  of  course  I  do,  just  as 
though  it  were  yesterday.  I  thought  I  was  never 
going  to  get  over  that  loss.  But  I  did.  And  oh,  how 
many  happy,  happy  years  I  have  had  with  you  and 
Ernest  and  your  father!  " 

"  I  can't  help  it,  mother,  if  I  can't  believe  you," 
Phoebe  remonstrated  in  her  stone-cold,  stone-hard 
voice.  "  I  suppose  you  think  you  loved  little  Albert 
as  I  love  Phoebe-Girl.  But  if  you  could  get  over  his 
death,  I  know  you  didn't.  For  I  shall  never  get 
over  Phoebe-Girl's  death.  I  think  I  loved  her  better 
than  any  of  my  children." 

"  You  don't  mean  that,  Phoebe,"  her  mother  said, 
still  tenderly  but  with  a  deeper  gravity.  '  You  say 
it  only  because  she's  gone." 

"  If  there  had  been  a  single  thing  in  my  life  to 
prepare  me  for  it,"  Phoebe  said  listlessly,  "  but  there 
hasn't  been  anything." 

1  That  is  true,  poor  little  girl,"  her  mother  agreed, 
"  nothing  in  life  has  prepared  you  for  such  a  loss. 
YouVe  had  such  a  happy  childhood  and  such  a  happy 
girlhood  and  such  a  happy  marriage  and  young 
motherhood.  Why,  Phoebe,  sometimes  I've  trem- 
bled for  you.  Sometimes  it's  seemed  to  me  as  though 
life  or  fate  or  chance — or  all  of  them — actually  con- 
spired to  keep  you  happy.  YouVe  never  had  any  of 
the  blows  that  other  women  have  had.  Think  of 


150  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Sylvia,  and  how  she  nearly  went  insane  when  her 
little  girl  was  born  dead.  Look  at  Molly  Tate  with 
three  babies  dead,  one  after  another.  Think  of 
Florence  Marsh  losing  that  lovely  little  Walter. 
Look  at " 

"  Mother,  it  doesn't  do  any  good  to  tell  me  about 
these  other  cases.  I'm  sorry  for  them,  of  course; 
but  it  doesn't  help  my  case.  I've  lost  her.  She's 
gone.  She's  gone  forever.  Forever.  Do  you  real- 
ize what  forever  means,  mother?  I  shall  never  see 
her  again,  my  beautiful,  beautiful  baby." 

"  Not  in  this  life,"  Mrs.  Martin  murmured. 

"  At  this  moment,"  Phoebe  asserted  dryly,  "  I  am 
not  interested  in  a  future  life.  I'm  entirely  pos- 
sessed by  the  agonizing  fact  that  I've  got  to  live  this 
present  one,  whether  I  like  it  or  not." 

The  two  women  were  in  Phoebe's  room.  Phoebe 
lay  in  her  nightgown  on  the  bed;  a  blue  down-puff 
over  her.  Every  light  in  her  had  died;  every  color 
faded;  every  line  sagged.  She  looked,  except  for 
the  strange  dullness  of  her  eyes — a  dullness  so  deep 
and  so  pervasive  that  it  was  almost  color — like  a 
dead  woman;  dead  and  dried,  after  years  of  fever. 

A  knock  came  on  her  door.  "  Come !  "  Phoebe 
ordered  monotonously.  Mr.  Martin  entered. 

"  May  I  stay  with  you  for  a  little  while,  Phoe- 
be? "  he  asked  gently. 

"  Yes,  father,"  Phoebe  permitted  civilly,  "  if  you 


THE  NEST  EGG  151 

won't  tell  me  to  be  brave  and  that  everything  is  for 
the  best  and  that  after  a  while  I'll  get  reconciled 
to  it.  I  refuse  to  be  brave.  And  I  think  this  is  a 
rotten  universe.  And  I  never  shall  be  reconciled  to 
it  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  I  won't  say  anything,  my  dear  child,"  her 
father  said,  "  if  you  wish.  Certainly  none  of  those 
things.  I  don't  at  this  moment  think  of  anything 
I  want  to  say,  except  that  I'm  suffering  a  twofold 
suffering — one  for  you  and  one  for  myself." 

1  Yes,  I  suppose  you  and  mother  are  suffering," 
Phoebe  agreed,  in  what  seemed  almost  a  polite  at- 
tempt to  catch  their  point  of  view.  "  But  you  can't 
know  what  it's  like  really.  You  didn't  bring  Phoebe- 
Girl  into  the  world." 

"  No,  Phoebe,  of  course  we  can't  know  exactly 
what  you're  going  through,"  her  father  said.  "  But 
we  can  remember.  You  see,  we  lost  a  little  son 
once." 

*  Yes,  I  know,"  Phoebe  almost  interrupted  her 
father.  "  Mother's  been  telling  me.  It  must  have 
been  awful.  But  I  can't  seem  to  realize  it.  I  can't 
think,"  and  her  voice  rose  in  sudden  passion,  •"  I 
can't  think  of  anything  but  myself.  I  can't  think  of 
Tug.  After  all,  he  isn't  her  mother.  He's  only  her 
father.  And  I  can't  think  of  the  children  even. 
Father,  I'm  going  to  ask  you  a  question.  I  can't 
torture  Tug  by  asking  him.  And  then  I  think  you 


152  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

will  tell  me  the  truth.    You  always  have  all  my  life." 

"  Yes,  Phoebe,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth,"  her  father 
promised.  "  As  far  as  I  know." 

"  Did  she  suffer  much?  Did  it  take  very  long 
for  her  to  drown?  "  Phoebe  drew  herself  upright. 
Her  dead  eyes  sharpened.  Her  face  fell  into  lines. 

"  No,  Phoebe  dear,"  her  father  answered.  His 
composure  broke  for  an  instant;  and  his  lips  started 
to  tremble.  But  he  caught  them  back  into  the  vise 
of  his  control.  "  I  have  just  been  talking  with  Dr. 
Bush  about  it.  He  says  it  takes  only  a  little  time — 
oh,  a  very  little  time — for  a  child  to  die  under  those 
circumstances.  The  suffering  is  very  brief  and  not 
agonizing." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  that,"  Phoebe  said  dully. 

"  If  you  could  see  her  face  now,"  her  father  went 
on,  "  you  would  understand.  It's  so  quiet  and  com- 
posed." 

"  I  shan't  look  at  her  again."  Phoebe  shuddered. 
"  I  shan't  go  to  the  funeral.  I'll  keep  in  this  room 
until  it's  over,  and  when  you  come  back  this  after- 
noon from  the  grave,  I  don't  want  you  to  mention 
her  to  me — any  of  you,  please." 

"  We  won't,  Phoebe,"  her  mother  promised. 

There  came  another  knock  on  the  door.  "  Come !  " 
Phoebe  ordered  monotonously.  The  door  opened, 
and  Tug  entered.  His  face  was  white  and  his  eyes 
swollen.  But  otherwise  he  was  perfectly  composed. 


THE  NEST  EGG  153 

"  How  do  you  feel,  dearest?  "  he  questioned  simply, 
as  though  he  and  his  wife  were  alone. 

"  Well,  I  wish  I  were  dead/1  Phoebe  explained 
with  a  writhing  smile.  "  But  aside  from  that,  I 
guess  I'm  all  right.  Oh,  in  a  few  days  Til  be  able 
to  pretend  like  everybody  else.  But,  Tug,  under- 
stand me,  I  don't  want  to  get  up.  I  don't  want  to  go 
to  the  funeral.  I  don't  want  to  listen  to  the  singing." 

"  You  needn't,  Phoebe,"  Tug  said.  "  We  want 
to  do — all  of  us — the  thing  that  you  want." 

"  I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way  about  it,"  Phoebe 
declared.  "  Tug,"  she  questioned  suddenly,  "  why 
did  we  have  her?  Why  was  she  sent  to  us  if  she  was 
going  to  be  snatched  back  in  this  brutal  fashion? 
What  was  the  idea  of  making  us  suffer  so?  " 

"  Oh,  Phoebe,  how  can  I  answer  that  question?  I 
don't  know.  But  I'm  glad  we  had  her.  Those  years 
are  precious " 

Tug  broke  off  abruptly,  gnawing  his  lips. 

"Well,  I'm  not  glad,"  Phoebe  maintained  almost 
shrilly.  "  I  would  rather  not  have  had  her  at  all, 
than  just  for  a  little." 

"  I'll  have  to  go  downstairs  now,  Phoebe,"  Tug 
said  gently,  "  unless  you  need  me.  There  are  all 
kinds  of  things  to  be  attended  to — telephone  calls — 
and  the  children — and  flowers  coming " 

4  Yes,  of  course."  Phoebe  admitted  this  with  a 
strange  air  of  detachment.  "  I'm  so  glad  that  you 


154  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

can  do  it,  Tug.  I  couldn't.  You  won't  let  anybody 
come  up  to  see  me,  Tug?  " 

"  No.  I  promise  you  that."  Tug  closed  the  door 
softly. 

"  When  I  think,"  Phoebe  went  on  in  a  tone  of 
bitter  reminiscence,  "  that  for  so  many  years  I  wor- 
ried for  fear  something  would  happen  to  Bertha- 
Elizabeth.  She  was  always  such  a  frail-looking  little 
girl.  I  realize  now  that  she  was  one  of  those  delicate- 
seeming  children  who  are  really  very  strong.  But  it 
never  occurred  to  me  that  anything  would  happen  to 
Phoebe-Girl.  Never!  She's  always  been  so  well 
and  she  was  always  the  first  one  to  throw  off  any  of 
the  children's  diseases  that  they  got.  Do  you  remem- 
ber, mother,  that  Christmas  when  Keith's  had  a 
Christmas  Tree  on  the  stage  and  at  the  end  of  the 
performance,  every  child  in  the  audience  marched 
up  to  receive  a  present?  When  Phoebe-Girl  came 
into  the  glare  of  the  footlights — do  you  remember 
how  the  audience  applauded?  Those  wonderful 
big  eyes !  And  those  extraordinary  eyelashes !  And 
that  complexion,  like  cherries  and  milk!  Oh,  how 
beautiful  she  looked !  How  she  smiled  and  dimpled 
when  they  applauded  her !  And  God  let  that  beauti- 
ful baby  drown !  Mother,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
there's  any  meaning  in  it?  " 

"Yes,  Phoebe,  I  believe  there  is.  Of  course  I 
don't  know  what  it  is,  though." 


THE  NEST  EGG  155 

"  I  guess  nobody  knows  what  it  is,"  Phoebe  said. 
"  I'd  like  to  see  anybody  have  the  impudence  to  try 
to  explain  it  to  me.  Do  you  remember,  mother,  for 
how  many  years  she  said  '  I  are  '  and  '  I  were  '  ?  I 
never  corrected  her.  She  learned  at  school." 

"  Phoebe  dear,"  her  mother  pleaded,  "  don't  you 
think  you'd  better  get  up  ?  I  do  believe  it  will  help 
a  little,  if  you  occupy  yourself." 

"  No,  I  shall  stay  here — until — until I  don't 

know  what  it  is  I  am  waiting  for;   but  I  shall  stay 
here  it  until  it  comes." 

There  came  a  third  knock  on  the  door.  "  Come !  " 
Phoebe's  voice  intoned  metalically. 

Bertha-Elizabeth  entered. 

Bertha-Elizabeth's  face,  tiny,  tense,  triangular, 
showed  no  signs  of  weeping;  but  she  was  as  blanched 
as  the  white  middy  blouse  she  wore;  and  her  eyes 
looked  bigger  and  darker  than  usual.  "  Mother 
dear,"  she  said,  "  Cousin  Lora  has  just  come.  She 
would  like  to  arrange  the  flowers,  if  you  want  her 
to.  I  thought  I  would  ask  you  what  you  wanted.  I 
would  much  prefer  to  do  it  myself,  if  you'd  trust 
me  enough  to  let  me.  Please,  mother!  " 

Her  mother  did  not  answer.  But  she  continued 
to  look  at  her  daughter.  For  an  instant  there  was 
a  faint  light,  as  of  inquiry,  in  her  face.  Very  simply 
Bertha-Elizabeth  answered  that  light.  u  The  garden 
is  full  of  red  roses — red,  red  roses.  And  Phoebe- 


156  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Girl  loved  red  roses  best.  You  know,  mother,  she 
always  loved  red  flowers — and  hair  ribbons — and 
belts  and  tarns — everything  red.  Mother,  do  you 
remember  how  she  always  insisted  on  having  a  Red- 
Riding-Hood  cape?  " 

Phoebe  did  not  answer  her  daughter.  But  she  con- 
tinued to  look  with  a  growing  intentness  at  her. 

"  We  children — Tug  and  Edward  and  Cely  and 
the  twins — have  been  picking  the  red  roses  all  the 
morning.  And  now  the  little  ones,  Micah  and  Mari- 
an-Elizabeth, are  pulling  off  all  the  thorns.  I 
thought,  mother,  if  you  didn't  mind,  Daisy  and  Cely 
and  I  would  make  a  little  bed  of  roses  for  Phoebe- 
Girl  to  lie  on — and  a  coverlet  to  put  over  her — and 
we'd  place  red  roses  in  her  hands  and  her  hair — and 

all  about  the  room I  thought  we'd  cover  her 

grave  with  the  flowers  people  are  sending But 

I  know  she'd  like  red  roses  close  to  her — they're  so 

warm — and  she  loved  them  so And,  mother, 

do  you  mind — if  I  wrap  her  first  in  her  little  Red- 
Riding-Hood  cape?" 

Phoebe's  eyes  seemed  to  grow  to  her  daughter's 
face. 

"  And,  mother,  we've  been  talking  it  over.  Toland 
and  Tom  Connors  and  the  twins  want  to  carry 
Phoebe-Girl  to  the  hearse  and  through  the  graveyard 
to  her  grave.  We  don't  want  anybody  else  but  us  to 
do  it.  May  we,  mother?  Oh,  mother,  mother!" 


THE  NEST  EGG  157 

For  Phoebe  had  leaped  out  of  bed,  had  caught 
Bertha-Elizabeth  in  her  eager,  trembling  arms! 
"  Oh,  my  darling  little  daughter,  what  beautiful  ideas 
you  have !  What  would  I  do  without  you !  What 
would  I  do !  Yes,  we'll  send  Cousin  Lora  away  and 
we  will  do  everything  ourselves;  we'll  make  a  great, 
wonderful  warm  coverlet  of  roses  for  Phoebe-Girl. 
Will  you  let  mother  help,  Bertha-Elizabeth?  " 

"  Oh,  mother!  " 

And  now  they  were  weeping  in  each  other's  arms. 

"  Well,  of  course,  mother,"  Phoebe  was  saying, 
"  I've  not  gotten  over  it  yet.  I'm  in  perfect  condi- 
tion physically " 

"  I  never  saw  you  looking  better,"  her  mother 
interpolated. 

"  And  of  course — mentally — I'm  more  serene. 
But  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  get  over  it  entirely." 

"  No,  Phoebe,"  her  mother  assured  her.  "  You'll 
never  get  over  it  entirely.  You  musn't  expect  that." 

"  I  don't,"  Phoebe  said.  "  But  it  isn't  such  a  bit- 
ter, tearing  pain  now.  It's  only  a — a — a  constant 
ache.  And  then,  of  course,  now  there's  my  hope — 
my  great,  great  hope " 

Phoebe's  eyes  grew  dreamy.  It  was  late  in  Octo- 
ber, and  the  Warburton  family  had  come  back  from 
a  summer  outing  in  Maine  which  had  been  prolonged 
later  than  ever  before.  Phoebe  was  as  brown  be- 


158  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

cause  of  swimming,  canoeing,  her  almost  forgotten 
tennis  even,  as  was  possible  for  a  blonde  to  be.  Out 
of  this  tan  coloring,  her  eyes  seemed  almost  glad 
again;  and  her  hair  more  incisive  in  its  effect  of  a 
carved  shining  metal.  Her  gay  smile  was  beginning 
to  reappear.  And  those  sudden  rushes  of  vivacity, 
which  carried  her  and  her  companions  to  high  peaks 
of  enthusiasm,  reappeared  occasionally  in  her  con- 
versation. 

She  arose  now  and  walked  a  little  aimlessly  over 
to  the  bureau;  opened  the  bureau  drawer;  glanced 
unseeingly  at  its  contents;  shut  it.  The  room  was 
still  a  little  stark.  The  family  had  arrived  that  after- 
noon and  although  in  preparation  for  them,  Mrs. 
Martin  had  made  the  house  as  normal  as  possible, 
many  of  the  details  of  use-and-wont  living  were  still 
absent. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  this  room  all  done  over," 
Phoebe  remarked.  "  Pink  and  blue  this  time.  I've 
always  had  yellow,  of  course.  But  with  this 
baby " 

"  Oh,  Phoebe,"  Mrs.  Martin  burst  out.  "  How 
happy  it  makes  me — the  thought  of  another  baby! 
What  an  ocean  of  love  a  baby  brings  with  it  into  this 
world.  It  seems  as  though  I  couldn't  wait!  My 
arms  ache  for  it!  " 

Phoebe  gave  her  mother  a  long  look.  "  And  I 
guess  you  know  how  my  arms  feel Oh,  I  look 


THE  NEST  EGG  159 

back  to  the  very  day,  last  June,  when  you  and  I  were 
talking  on  the  piazza " 

"  Don't,  Phoebe !  "  her  mother  begged. 

14  Don't  be  afraid,  mother,  I  shan't  cry.  I  have 
myself  in  perfect  control  now.  But  I  was  only  going 
to  say — that  that  very  day,  I  said  to  you  that  my 
family  was  big  enough;  that  five  children  were 
enough.  But  I've  learned  better  now.  No  number 
of  children  is  enough — with  Death  always  camping 
on  our  trail.  Mother,  I  am  going  to  have  just  as 
many  children  as  I  can.  I'm  never  going  to 
stop." 

Mrs.  Martin  sighed.  "  Well,  of  course  nothing 
makes  me  happier  than  the  birth  of  a  grandchild. 
And  yet,  Phoebe,  I  don't  want  you  to  give  your  whole 
youth  up  to " 

44  What  else  am  I  good  for?  "  Phoebe  demanded. 
44  Here  I  am  a  great,  husky  she-creature  with  a  good 
husband  and  a  comfortable  home.  I  take  child- 
bearing  easily.  I  bear  healthy  and — if  I  do  say  it  as 
shouldn't — beautiful  children.  I  not  only  love  my 
children  but  I  enjoy  them.  Why  shouldn't  I  keep 
on  having  them?  " 

"You're  absolutely  right,  Phoebe  dear,"  her 
mother  answered  impulsively. 

14  But  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  look  forward 
to  any  other  as  I'm  looking  forward  to  this  one," 
Phoebe  admitted.  "I'm  sure  she'll  fill  Phoebe- 


160  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Girl's  place."  Phoebe  stopped  and  gave  her  mother 
a  second  long  look. 

Mrs.  Martin  said  nothing. 

"  Of  course,  I'm  hoping  and  praying  that  she'll 
be  the  image  of  Phoebe-Girl.  I  remember  just  ex- 
actly what  Phoebe-Girl  looked  like  when  she  was 
born.  She  was  the  most  beautiful  baby  I've  ever 
seen.  Do  you  remember,  mother,  how  much  hair 
she  had?  And  her  eyes,  so  big  and  soft!  And  her 
wonderful  skin !  She  was  not  the  least  bit  pink.  She 

was  just  as  white  and  lovely  as  a  snow  child '•  I 

remember  I  gave  the  nurse  a  list  of  telephone  num- 
bers and  told  her  to  call  up  all  those  women  and  tell 
them  that  Mrs.  Warburton  wanted  them  to  come  up 
that  very  day  and  see  a  baby  that  looked  exactly  the 
way  she  ought  to  when  she  came  walking  into  this 
world.  And  they  all  came.  And  do  you  remember, 
mother,  when  she  was  christened  three  weeks  later, 
I  tied  her  hair  out  of  her  eyes  with  a  smashing,  great 
white  bow?  Oh,  how  often  I  think  of  that  picture." 
Phoebe  stopped,  but  her  look  was  all  question.  Mrs. 
Martin  said  nothing. 

"  Oh,  if  only,  this  time,  the  nurse  would  put  an- 
other baby  into  my  arms  just  like  that — black- 
haired,  black-eyed  —  white  skin  —  dimples 

Then  I  shall  know  that  my  lost  Phoebe-Girl's  place 
has  been  filled.  I  shall  feel  as  though  Phoebe-Girl 
were  back.  I  shall  not  mourn  her  any  more." 


THE  NEST  EGG  161 

Phoebe  stopped;  but  her  silence  maintained  her 
aspect  of  question  and  she  gave  her  mother  a  third 
long  look.  But  Mrs.  Martin  did  not  answer. 

"  Yes,  Tug  darling,"  Phoebe  said.  "  The  instant 
the  children  come  home,  let  them  come  right  up.  I 
want  to  see  their  faces  the  first  time  they  see  the  baby. 
Warn  them  that  they  can't  stay  very  long  and  tell 
them  to  be  very  quiet." 

"  Is  it  all  right,  nurse?  "  Tug  asked  anxiously  of 
the  tall,  soldierly,  gray-haired  woman  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed. 

"  Perfectly,"  the  nurse  answered.  "  Mrs.  War- 
burton  is  as  well  as  she  could  be  under  the  circum- 


stances." 


u  All  right,"  Tug  said.  '  They're  already  home. 
I'll  collect  them  at  once." 

Phoebe  lay  in  the  middle  of  her  big  bed.  Her  hair 
parted  in  the  middle  and  flowing  into  two  rippling 
braids,  one  in  front  of  each  ear,  gave  her  a  look  of 
belated  girlhood — a  childlikeness  even.  The  room 
had  been  done  over,  according  to  her  promise,  in 
chintzes  of  pale  pink  and  blue.  The  Colonial  bed 
had  been  recanopied  in  pink  and  blue.  Great  bunches 
of  roses  and  forget-me-nots  filled  vases  everywhere. 
Phoebe's  bed-jacket  was  of  blue  chiffon  over  pink. 
The  puff  was  pink  and  blue.  Out  of  all  this  delicate 
coloring  shone  two  white  spots :  Phoebe's  face  pale, 


162  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

a  little  sharp;  and  another  face,  tiny,  perceptibly 
blond,  that  lay  sleeping  at  her  breast.  Presently, 
outside,  tiptoeing  footsteps  came  stealing  upstairs; 
drew  nearer  along  the  hall.  A  faint  knock  nicked 
the  silence,  forced  open  the  door.  There  appeared 
Bertha-Elizabeth,  a  silvery  radiance  shining  behind 
her  tear-swept  lashes;  Toland,  subdued,  even  to  hair 
and  teeth  and  freckles;  Edward,  superior  as  a  pale 
young  prince  though  frankly  curious;  Micah,  a  little 
perfunctory. 

"  Come  here,  my  darlings,  and  see  your  new  little 
sister,"  Phoebe  called  gently.  "  I'll  let  you  kiss  her 
when  she  wakes  up." 

The  quartette  filed  over  to  her  side,  lined  up  at  the 
bed-edge;  solemnly  surveyed  the  little  egg-shaped 
head  with  its  pale  down  of  hair. 

"  Oh,  mother,  what  a  darling!  "  exclaimed  Bertha- 
Elizabeth.  "  Oh,  nurse,  when  she  wakes  up,  may  I 
hold  her  in  my  arms?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  nurse  assented.  "  And  you  can  help 
me  give  her  a  bath  tomorrow  if  you'd  like." 

"  Oh,  nurse — thank  you !    Mother,  how  sweet  you 
look!     May  Cely  see  her  take  her  bath?  " 
4  Yes,"  the  nurse  permitted. 
'What's   her   name,   mother?"    Toland   asked. 
'  You  know  you  wouldn't  tell  us  what  you  were  going 
to  call  her." 

"  Yes,  that  was  a  secret,"  Phoebe  admitted,  "  be- 


THE  NEST  EGG  163 

cause  if  it  had  been  a  boy But  I  knew  it  would 

be  a  girl.  Her  name  is  Hope.  She's  mother's  hope, 
you  see?  What  do  you  think  of  her,  boys?  " 

"  I  think  she's  great,"  Toland  saidvafter  a  period 
of  careful  examination. 

Phoebe  smiled  with  a  swift  rush  of  her  old-time 
spirit. 

"And  you,  Edward?" 

Edward  palpably  struggled  with  his  conscience. 
"  I  guess  she's  all  right;  but  I  did  think  she'd  be  big- 
ger and  all  finished,"  he  said  in  a  disappointed  tone. 
"  And  of  course,  I  wanted  a  brother.  I  would  have 
liked  twin  brothers — like  Edward  and  Gordon."  He 
transferred  his  long-lashed,  great-irised  gray  gaze 
from  the  baby's  head  to  his  mother's  face.  His  dis- 
appointment welled  in  his  look. 

Phoebe  laughed  outright  this  time.  "  Aside  from 
that,  she's  all  right,"  she  summed  it  up  for  him. 
"  What  do  you  think,  Micah?  " 

"  I  thought  she'd  be  ready  to  go  right  out  and 
play.  I  really  don't  think  she's  very  useful." 

The  baby  waked  up ;  emitted  a  queer  whining  cry. 
True  to  her  promise,  the  nurse  permitted  Bertha- 
Elizabeth  to  hold  her  a  moment,  to  soothe  her  back 
to  sleep.  Then  she  put  the  baby  in  the  crib  and  tip- 
toeing, the  children  departed. 

Phoebe  dozed.  "  Is  that  my  mother?  "  she  asked 
when  the  next  nursing  period  came  round. 


1 64  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

'  Yes,  Mrs.  Martin  has  been  here  quite  a  while." 

"  I'd  like  to  speak  to  my  mother,  nurse.  I'm  so 
rested,  and  I  feel  just  like  it." 

"  I'll  tell  her,"  the  nurse  assented  briskly. 

She  departed. 

Phoebe's  gray  eyes  wandered  absently  out  the 
window  over  the  garden,  still  stiff  with  ice,  and  be- 
yond to  the  marshes  like  planes  of  silver,  and 
beyond  them  to  the  surrounding  hills,  snow- 
covered.  A  blue  sky,  taut  as  a  pulled  blue  can- 
vas, dropped  low  onto  those  hills.  A  file  of  ever- 
greens, epauletted  with  snow,  charged  to  their  top. 
Great  white  clouds  with  sails  bellying  roundly  sailed 
massively  above  them.  In  the  fireplace  a  wood  fire 
snapped  and  sparkled.  Phoebe  stared  dreamily  at 
the  mounting  flames.  Then  her  eyes  returned  to  the 
little  suckling,  grunting  creature.  She  smiled  happily. 
Presently  the  door  opened;  Mrs.  Martin  entered. 

"Well,  Phoebe  dear,  how  do  you  feel?"  she 
demanded  briskly  of  her  daughter. 

"  Perfectly  ripping!  "  Phoebe  said  with  something 
of  her  old  italicizing  forthrightness.  "  I  never  had 
an  easier  time.  It  was  a  picnic  as  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned. She  just  seemed  to  walk  into  this  world,  as 
though  a  little  gate  in  heaven  opened  and  let  her  out. 
And  I  seemed  to  stand  off  and  watch  the  proceeding." 

"  She's  an  angel,  anyway!  "  Mrs.  Martin  seemed 
to  authenticate  this  impression. 


THE  NEST  EGG  165 

"  Yes,  she  certainly  is  that."  Phoebe  looked  down 
again  at  her  busy  little  daughter.  "  The  little  pig. 
Of  course  she  doesn't  look  the  least  bit  like  Phoebe- 
Girl But  not,  after  all,  that  that  makes  any 

difference,  I  guess.  I  found  out  something,  the  in- 
stant they  brought  her  to  me.  And  that  was  that, 
although  she  made  her  own  place  in  my  heart  at 
once,  she  can't — and  nobody  can — fill  Phoebe-Girl's 
place.  I  don't  know  that  I  make  myself  clear, 
mother?" 

"  I  understand,  Phoebe.  I  do  understand — oh,  sto 
well.  I  could  have  told  you,  and  I  wanted  to;  but 
somehow  I  couldn't.  When  you  spoke  of  a  new  baby 
filling  Phoebe-Girl's  place,  I  knew  better.  When  you 
were  born,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  fill  little  Al- 
bert's place.  But  you  didn't.  You  couldn't.  That 
place  is  vacant  in  my  heart  still.  Only  now,  there's 
a  something  sweet  and  lovely  about  it.  It  doesn't 
hurt  any  more." 

uWhy  is  that,  I  wonder?"  Phoebe  asked  pa- 
tiently. '"I  don't  understand  it.  I  don't  believe  I 
shall  ever  feel  that  way." 

"Yes,  you  will,  Phoebe.  It  takes  time,  but  it 
comes.  And  this  is  the  way  it  will  happen.  Your 
other  children  keep  changing  all  the  time.  You 
hardly  get  to  know  them  in  one  stage  before  they 
jump  into  another.  And  oh,  how  it  hurts  you  to  see 
them  growing  up  and  then,  after  a  while,  passing 


166  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

beyond  your  influence  and  almost  out  of  your  life.  I 
remember  when  it  first  dawned  on  me  that  I  never 
again  was  going  to  see  you  as  a  little  girl  or  Ernest 
as  a  little  boy,  how  my  heart  ached!  That  period 
is  so  sweet  when  you  are  their  entire  world,  and  their 
happiness  springs  from  you.  And  their  darling  little 
ways!  And  their  lovely  little  language!  It's 
scarcely  here  before  it's  gone  forever.  And,  Phoebe, 
you  never  can  get  it  back.  It's  as  though  each  child 
was  a  series  of  children — like  those  strings  of  paper 
dolls  you  used  to  cut  when  you  were  a  child.  Only 
as  fast  as  each  new  phase  appears,  the  last  one  dies. 
And,  Phoebe,  you  never  can  get  it  back.  My  little 
Albert  died.  Where  he  is  I  don't  know.  But  he's 
somewhere,  I'm  sure.  And  he  stayed  in  my  memory 
as  he  was.  He  never  grew  into  another  child.  I 
still  think  he  needs  me  more  than  anybody.  You 
came — and  oh,  how  I  loved  you!  Ernest  came — 
and  oh,  how  I  loved  him!  Yet  every  year,  every 
month — every  minute,  you  might  say — you  changed 
into  other  children.  But  Albert  was  dead.  He 
stayed  as  he  was.  I  feel  as  though  I'd  kept  him  all 
those  years.  I  don't  think  of  Albert  now  as  a  sorrow 
or  a  tragedy  He's  a  little  nest  egg  of  happiness, 
saved  up  Somewhere  in  the  universe  for  me.  And 
some  time,  I  know,  I'm  going  to  find  that  happiness 
and  enjoy  it,  as  I  never  could  enjoy  it  in  this  life." 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS 

"TT  TELL,  mother,"  Phoebe  exclaimed  from  the 

VV  door  of  her  mother's  living  room,  "I've 
got  bad  news  for  you." 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Martin  was  accustomed  to  an 
alarmist  quality  in  her  daughter;  perhaps  she  con- 
sidered that  a  certain  inobvious  luster  of  spirit  con- 
tradicted the  obvious  pessimism  of  her  utterance. 
At  any  rate  she  glanced  quietly  up  at  Phoebe  and 
as  quietly  glanced  back  at  her  sewing.  ;t  What  is 
it?  "  she  asked  evenly. 

;<  We're  going  away  for  Christmas  this  year — - 
Tug  and  I  and  the  children.  We're  so  placed  that 
we  can't  do  anything  different.  We're  going  up  to 
Tug's  Uncle  Jerry's  farm  in  Braeburn,  New  Hamp- 
shire." 

"  Isn't  it  rather  sudden?  "  Mrs.  Martin  asked. 

*  Yes.  You  see  Uncle  Jerry  has  written  every 
December  inviting  the  whole  family  up  there.  But 
it  has  never  been  convenient  before,  and  besides 
we've  always  wanted  our  own  Christmas  in  our  own 
house.  And  again,  they've  always  had  a  big  party 

167 


1 68  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

and  didn't  need  us  so  much.  But  this  year  he  wrote 
such  a  pathetic  letter!  He's  getting  pretty  infirm 
now.  He  hasn't  been  out  for  months,  and  they're 
going  to  be  alone.  He  said  he  would  like  to  have  one 
good  family  Christmas  in  the  old  homestead  before 
he  died." 

"  How  does  Tug  feel  about  it?'7  Mrs.  Martin 
inquired. 

"  He's  as  excited  as You  see,  he  used  to  go 

to  Braeburn  for  Christmas  when  he  was  a  little  boy, 
and  he  always  had  the  most  wonderful  times.  Last 
night  he  gathered  the  children  about  him  and  told 
them  all  about  the  things  he  used  to  do.  There's  a 
hill  in  front  of  the  farmhouse  where  he  used  to  coast 
— so  steep  that — well,  Tug  says  it's  the  most  danger- 
ous coasting  that  he's  ever  done.  And  then  back  of 
the  barn  there's  a  great  big  pond  where  he  went 
skating.  He  fell  through  the  ice  once  and  was  nearly 
drowned.  Tug  says  they  were  always  so  good  to 
him.  He  particularly  wants  to  go  when  they  need 
him  because  it  would  be  like  paying  back  an  old 
debt." 

"How  did  the  children  take  it?"  Mrs.  Martin 
asked. 

"  They're  simply  crazy  with  delight.  Of  course 
they  never  saw  a  real  country  Christmas  before.  Oh, 
I  do  so  hope  it  will  snow." 

"  I  hope  so,  too,"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed.    Her  eyes 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  169 

went  out  the  window  to  the  early  December  scene, 
brown  tree-trunks  and  tree-branches  criss-crossing  on 
the  blue  sky;  brown  paths  weaving  among  brown 
flower-beds;  faded  lawns.  "  I  must  confess  I  like 
SHOW  on  the  ground  in  winter,  especially  in  the  coun- 
try. The  earth  looks  so  naked  when  the  grass  and 
flowers  are  gone." 

"  Of  course,  at  first,"  Phoebe  said  meditatively, 
"  I  hated  to  go  away  and  leave  you  and  father. 
But  when  I  saw  how  much  Tug  wanted  to  do  it — he 
says  nobody  has  ever  been  kinder  to  him  than  his 
Uncle  Jerry " 

"  I'm  glad  you're  going  then,"  Mrs.  Martin  ap- 
proved, "  and  I  think  you  ought  to." 

"  That's  the  way  I  feel  about  it,"  Phoebe  affirmed. 
"  Then  there's  another  side  of  it.  I'm  glad  to  get 
away  from  Maywood — just  for  the  rest  it  will  give 
me.  Do  you  know,  mother,  I'm  rather  tired  of 
Christmas.  It's  such  hard  work." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  her  mother  said.  "  When  I 
consider  what  you  do — a  Christmas  tree  and  a 
Christmas  dinner,  all  the  presents  you  give  and  all  the 
cards  you  send  out,  the  constant  excitement  in  the 
house,  with  everybody  coming  in  to  see  the  Tree,  and 
the  children  going  out  to  see  everybody  else's  Tree— 
I  should  think  you  would  be  worn  out." 

"  I  am,  almost,"  Phoebe  admitted. 

"  Christmas  has  become  so  elaborate  nowadays," 


170  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Mrs.  Martin  sighed.  "  The  dinner  in  courses  and  so 
many  of  them,  the  tree  lighted  by  electricity,  and  all 
the  special  things  you  get,  special  boxes  to  put  pres- 
ents in,  and  special  paper,  bags  and  tags  and  cards, 
and  cords  and  ribbons  and  seals — yes,  Christmas  has 
really  become  a  terrible  strain." 

"  The  queerest  thing  has  happened  to  me  this 
year,"  Phoebe  declared  in  a  puzzled  tone.  "  And  I 
can't  for  the  life  of  me  account  for  it.  All  my  life 
I've  been  simply  mad  about  Christmas.  From  the 
first  of  December  on,  I've  never  thought  of  anything 
else.  But  the  last  two  or  three  years,  it's  grown  to 
be  such  a  burden — I've  sort  of  dreaded  it.  And  this 
year  I  can't  feel  Christmas-sy  to  save  my  life.  We'll 
bring  the  children's  presents  up  to  Braeburn  and  we'll 
let  them  hang  their  stockings  up — Tug  says  there  are 
beautiful,  great  old-fashioned  fireplaces  there.  But 
no  tree,  no  Santa  Claus,  no  elaborate  Christmas 
dinner,  no  eggnog — no  anything  that  is  tiresome. 
I'm  going  to  rest." 

"That's  right,"  her  mother  approved.  "  Of 
course  I  shall  miss  you  and  the  children  dreadfully. 
And  yet,  do  you  know,  I  shall  enjoy  having  a  quiet 
Christmas  too.  How  I  wish  we  could  go  back  to  the 
simplicity  of  years  ago!  People  spend  so  much 
money  nowadays  and  they  rush  round  so.  Seems  as 
though  it  could  be  done  in  some  better  way." 

"  Some  people  would  like  to  abolish  Christmas 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  CLAUS  171 

altogether,"  Phoebe  went  on  thoughtfully,  "  but  I 
don't  think  I'm  for  that;  I  don't  believe  in  useless 
giving  and  I  try  to  do  my  Christmas  shopping  early. 
But  yet,  when  I  consider  giving  it  up  altogether 
something  happens  in  my  heart.  I  just  can't. 
Sometimes  I  think  there  is  something  in  people  that 
makes  them  yearn  for  the  things  they're  accustomed 
to,  like  holidays.  The  trouble  is,  as  you  say,  that  it's 
no  longer  simple  enough.  Christmas  has  become 
standardized  and  commercialized.  We  go  through 
the  motions  of  Christmas  just  as  mechanically  as  we 
went  through  our  exercises  in  school." 

"  So  you  see,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  concluded, 
after  she  had  recounted  this  conversation  to  her  hus- 
band, "  this  means  that  we  will  have  our  Christmas 
dinner  alone.  I  hope  you  won't  mind.  Just  think, 
weVe  gone  to  Phoebe's  ever  since  she's  been  mar- 
ried." 

14  No,  I  won't  mind,"  Mr.  Martin  declared.  "  Of 
course  I'll  miss  the  children  and  the  grandchildren. 
But  aside  from  that,  I  don't  know  but  that  it  will  be 
rather  refreshing  to  have  a  Christmas  like  the  ones 
we  used  to  have  when  we  first  went  to  housekeeping." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed.  "  I'm 
kinder  looking  forward  to  it.  Land,  how  quiet  they 
used  to  be !  We  were  so  poor  then  that  I  counted 
every  penny.  Do  you  remember  that  we  had  Sam 


172  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

and  Lou  Davis  to  our  first  dinner?  How  simple  it 
was!  Only  turkey  and  vegetables  and  a  plum 
pudding!  And  all  the  vegetables  set  right  down  on 
the  table.  When  I  think  of  Phoebe's  dinner  served 
in  courses — and  with  three  maids  to  wait  on  table — 
I  realize  what  a  difference  there  is  in  living  nowa- 
days. Lou  Davis  gave  me  a  handkerchief-case  that 
she'd  embroidered  herself.  She  did  perfectly  beauti- 
ful work.  I  remember  I  felt  so  cheap  because  I  gave 
her — now,  what  was  it  I  gave  her — what  was  it? 
Well,  I  can't  remember.  But  I  know  I  made  it  my- 
self on  the  machine.  I  couldn't  embroider  the  way 
Lou  did.  In  those  days  Christmas  giving  was 
simpler,  although  perhaps  folks  put  more  of  them- 
selves into  it.  I  remember  after  dinner  how  beauti- 
fully Lou  sang  to  us.  She  had  a  lovely  voice — she'd 
have  made  her  fortune  on  the  stage.  And  she  used 
to  sing  those  old  songs,  '  Oh,  How  I  Love  My  Ada !  ' 
4  Climbing  Up  the  Golden  Stairs,'  and  '  In  the 
Gloaming.'  Oh  yes,  Christmas  was  so  much  more 
happy  then." 

She  paused  as  if  expecting  some  comment  from 
Mr.  Martin.  But  all  he  said  was,  "  Well,  this  year 
Christmas  will  have  a  chance  to  revert  to  type  with 


us." 


"  Who  do  you  suppose  came  into  the  office  this 
morning?"  Mr.  Martin  demanded  of  his  wife  a 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  173 

week  later.  u  Oh,  you'll  never  guess !  "  he  warned 
her.  "  Not  in  a  hundred  years.  Sam  Davis !  "  he 
finally  answered  her  interlocutory  stare. 

uSam  Davis!"  Mrs.  Martin  echoed.  "  Sam 
Davis!  Well,  of  all  things!  Why,  we  were  talk- 
ing about  him  only  the  other  night !  " 

"  That's  what  I  told  him,"  Mr.  Martin  replied. 
"  He'd  just  come  from  the  West.  He's  come  on  East 
about  a  machine  he's  invented.  He's  an  inventor, 
you  know !  He's  had  a  pretty  hard  row  to  hoe.  I 
guess  he's  practically  at  the  end  of  his  rope.  He 
said  if  this  machine  doesn't  go — but  he  seems  to  be 
sure  it  will,  and  I  must  say,  it  sounded  pretty  good 
to  me.  Well,  he  said  that  he  and  his  wife  got  talking 
about  that  Christmas  dinner  they  had  with  us  nearly 
forty  years  ago  and  that  put  it  into  his  head  to  look 
me  up.  He  said  his  wife  used  that  catch-all  you  gave 
her  until  it  was  worn  to  rags." 

"  Oh,  that's  it — a  catch-all"  Mrs.  Martin  said 
with  a  gratified  accent.  '*  I've  been  trying  ever  since 
I  mentioned  it  to  remember  what  I  gave  Lou  Davis. 
Did  you  tell  him  I  spoke  of  the  handkerchief-case  she 
gave  me  ? " 

;<  Well,  I  told  him  you'd  mentioned  something,  but 
I  couldn't  think  what  it  was.  We  had  a  long  talk — - 
Sam  went  to  lunch  with  me.  He's  the  same  fine, 
open-hearted  fellow  that  he's  always  been.  And — 
and — I  might  as  well  break  it  to  you,  Bertha— I  don't 


174  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

know  what  you'll  say  to  me.  But  it's  good-by  to 
your  quiet  Christmas;  I  invited  them  to  Christmas 
dinner  here/' 

4i  I'm  glad  you  did!  I'm  glad  you  did*9  said  Mrs. 
Martin  with  emphasis.  <v  I'm  just  as  glad  as  I  can 
be.  I'd  love  to  see  Lou  again.  I'll  go  in  and  call 
on  her  tomorrow." 

"  You  can't  do  that,  because  they're  leaving  farj 
New  York  to  be  gone  until  Christmas  morning.  I 
said  we'd  have  dinner  at  eight  o'clock  at  night.  Is 
that  all  right?  There  was.  something  Sam  had  W 
do  Christmas  day,  so  he  couldn't  get  out  here  at 


noon." 


"  Yes — I  don't  know  but  what  I  like  it  better  at 
night.  It  gives  me  more  time  to  get  ready.  Phoebe 
always  has  her  dinners  at  night." 

"  Oh,  and,  Bertha,"  Mr.  Martin  went  on  in  an 
apologetic  tone,  "  I  did  another  thing.  You  know1 
Rogers  in  the  office?  Well,  I  found  out  that  he 
wasn't  going  to  have  any  Christmas  dinner  this  year. 
So  I  invited  him.  He's  all  alone  in  the  world,  you. 
know.  That  niece  of  his,  the  one  he  brought  up 
from  babyhood,  got  married  last  year  and  went  to 
Seattle  to  live." 

"  That's  all  right,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  said 
heartily.  "  I'm  glad  you  did.  I've  always  liked  Mr. 
Rogers.  I  shall  enjoy  having  him  here." 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  175 

"  All  right,  I'll  phone  Sam  early  tomorrow  all 
the  dope  about  trains." 

"  Well,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  two  days 
later,  "  I  don't  know  what  you  are  going  to  think  of 
me.  But  I  got  a  letter  from  Cousin  Debbie  today, 
saying  how  tired  and  worn  out  she  was — 
she's  been  sewing  six  mortal  weeks  at  the  Harrisons' 
trousseau — and  on  the  impulse  I  dropped  her  a 
postcard,  telling  her  to  come  down  and  spend  Christ- 
mas with  us.  She'd  just  love  to  see  Lou  Davis  again. 
Those  two  were  always  the  greatest  trainers  when 
they  got  together — Lou's  just  as  full  as  she  can  stick, 
you  know.  And  then  in  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Seaver 
came  over.  And  it  seems  Gracie's  going  away  to 
spend  Christmas  with  Ray's  people,  and  she'll  be 
all  alone.  So  I  invited  her  to  dinner.  I  hope  you 
don't  mind?  " 

"  Go  as  far  as  you  like,"  Mr.  Martin  encouraged 
his  wife.  u  It  happens  that  that  makes  the  number 
even.  Because  coming  out  on  the  train  tonight,  I 
had  a  talk  with  Brad  Torrey  and  I  ended  by  inviting 
him.  I  don't  know  when  I've  talked  with  Brad  be- 
fore. I  thought  his  life  was  just  filled  with  dissipa- 
tion, but  it  seems  he  leads  quite  a  lonely  existence 
nowadays.  Queer  about  those  gay  boys !  There 
comes  a  period  when  all  the  gaiety  goes  and  then  they 
are  nothing  but  stranded  old  bachelors,  too  young  for 


176  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

their  own  generation  and  too  old  for  the  next. 
Brad's  just  reached  that  period.  Lord,  how  I  used 
to  envy  him !  Seemed  as  though  at  one  time  he  was 
always  going  to  dinners  and  riding  in  other  folk's 
carriages.  Well,  the  long  and  short  of  it  all  is, 
that  nobody  had  invited  him  to  Christmas  dinner,  sa 
I  did.  You  see  that  makes  the  crowd  even — eight  of 


us." 


"  It's  getting  to  be  quite  a  party,"  Mrs.  Martin, 
said,  shaking  her  hands  in  her  characteristic  gesture 
of  delight.  "  Of  course,  I'm  going  to  have  it  as 
quiet  and  simple  as  possible.  But  I  do  want  the 
house  to  look  pretty.  So  I  stopped  into  Bradley's 
today  and  ordered  some  holly  and  mistletoe ;  oh  yes, 
and  some  wreaths  for  the  windows,  a  kind  I've  al- 
ways wanted,  big  laurel  ones  with  smashing  red  bows. 
They  were  expensive,  Edward." 

"Darn  the  expense!"  Mr.  Martin  commented. 
"  But  above  all  things  I  want  you  to  have  a  good  din- 
ner, Bertha.  Don't  think  of  economizing.  If  you 
need  extra  help,  get  it.  It  seems  the  Davises  are  just 
longing  for  some  home-cooked  New  England  food." 

"  Oh  yes,  I've  been  planning  my  dinner  ever  since 
you  told  me  they  were  coming,"  Mrs.  Martin 
declared.  "  I'm  going  to  copy  Phoebe's  Christmas- 
dinner.  We're  going  to  begin  with  grape  fruit — • 
great  big  ones.  Then  I'm  going  to  have  a  cream  of 
spinach  soup  with  whipped  cream  on  the  top;  then 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  177 

mushrooms  on  toast — real  mushrooms,  not  canned — > 
then  the  turkey  with  all  the  vegetables,  sweet  and 
white  potatoes,  squash,  turnip,  celery,  onions;  then 
a  romaine  salad  with  grapes  and  nuts,  and  French 
dressing;  then  plum  pudding  and  mince  pie;  ice 
cream;  cheese,  coffee  and  fruit.  With  olives  and 
candy  and  nuts,  seems  to  me  that'll  be  a  pretty  good 
dinner." 

"  Sounds  like  some  feed  to  me,"  Mr.  Martin/ 
approved.  "  Won't  it  be  a  lot  of  work?  " 

'  Yes,  but  I  want  to  do  it.  I  don't  know  what 
you'll  think  of  me,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  went  on, 
"  but  these  are  positively  the  last  people  I'm  going  to 
ask  because  our  table  won't  hold  any  more.  I 
couldn't  resist  inviting  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merriweather. 
You  see,  they're  all  alone  here  in  this  country,  and 
the  English  do  make  so  much  of  Christmas,  and  two/ 
more  didn't  seem  to  make  any  difference " 

"I'm  glad  you  did  it,"  Mr.  Martin  said  heartily. 
"  I  like  Merriweather.  He's  a  nice  fellow.  He's 
lived  in  the  West,  too.  He  and  Sam  will  have  a 
lot  in  common." 

"  Oh,  say,  Bertha,"  Mr.  Martin  began  two  nights 
later.  u  Davis  came  into  the  office  today.  He'd 
come  on  from  New  York  on  the  midnight  and  was 
going  back  on  the  midnight.  He's  put  that  deal 
through  and  he's  feeling  pretty  good.  We  got  talk- 
ing about  the  Christmas  dinner,  and  I  don't  know 


178  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

exactly  how  it  happened — I  think  he  proposed  it. 
Anyway,  we  went  around  to  a  department  store  and 
bought  a  whole  lot  of  fool  toys  as  presents  for  the 
dinner  party.  I  haven't  had  such  a  good  time  in 
months.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  Sam  Davis 
josh  those  pretty  girls  who  waited  on  us.  Crowded 
as  it  was,  the  whole  department  was  listening  to 
him  before  we  got  out." 

"  Did  you  buy  something  for  everybody?"  Mrs. 
Martin  demanded. 

"  I  should  say  we  did.  We  must  have  got  half  a 
dozen  for  everybody.  We  nearly  bought  the  toy 
department  out.  And  then  Sam  and  I  went  round  to 
Miner's  and  he  bought  a  wrist  watch  for  his  wife. 
It  seems  she  wants  one  awfully.  They'd  made 
an  agreement  not  to  make  each  other  presents,  but  he 
wants  you  to  put  it  at  her  place  on  the  table."  He 
drew  a  little  white,  paper-wrapped  box  from  his 
pocket.  "  He  said  you  might  look  at  it  if  you  wanted 
to."  Mr.  Martin  undid  the  paper,  opened  the  box. 
"  Like  it?  "he  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  think  it's  an  awfully  pretty  one!  "  Mrs. 
Martin  exclaimed.  "  It's  much  nicer  than  Phoebe's. 
I  like  it  square.  I  think  Phoebe's  is  too  masculine. 
And  I  like  that  elastic  gold  bracelet.  I've  got  a  great 
joke  on  Sam  too.  A  package  and  a  letter  came  from 
Lou  today.  She'd  bought  a  new  camera  for  Sam,  and 
she  wanted  me  to  put  that  at  his  plate." 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  179 

"  I  went  into  town  this  afternoon, "  Mrs.  Martin 
confided  to  Mr.  Martin,  when  he  came  home  to  din- 
ner Christmas  Eve,  "  in  all  this  storm  and  did  a  lit- 
tle shopping.  When  you  told  me  that  you  and  Sam. 
Davis  had  bought  all  those  toys,  I  thought  it  would 
be  a  little  more  like  Christmas  if  I  did  them  up 
pretty.  So  I  got  a  lot  of  lovely  Christmas  paper- 
some  gold,  and  some  red — and  some  green  Christ- 
mas ribbon  and  cord  and  cards  and  tags  and  seals. 
IVe  been  working  all  the  afternoon  just  doing  up 
bundles.  It's  been  great  fun,  and  I  didn't  get  tired 
at  all.  Somehow  when  you  have  such  pretty  materials 

to  work  with  and  all  you  want  of  them "  Mrs.' 

Martin  led  her  husband  into  the  living-room.  "  Look 
at  that!  "  The  capacious  couch  was  piled  high  with 
Christmas  bundles. 

"  Great  Scott !  I  didn't  know  that  we  bought  so- 
much  truck,"  said  Mr.  Martin.  . 

"  Now  what  do  you  suppose  I'm  going  to  do  this 
evening?  "  Mrs.  Martin  demanded.  "  You'll  never 
guess.  The  idea  came  to  me  while  I  was  in  town.  I 
bought  some  cretonne  and  braid,  and  I'm  going  to 
make  Lou  Davis  a  catch-all,  as  near  as  I  can  remem- 
ber like  the  one  I  made  her  forty  years  ago." 

After  dinner,  Mrs.  Martin  retired  to  the  back 
living-room,  where  for  the  whole  evening  she  busied 
herself  at  the  sewing  machine.  Mr.  Martin  distrib- 


i8o  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

uted  his  attention  impartially  among  the  evening 
newspapers  and  the  Christmas  magazines. 

"  Well!  "  Mrs.  Martin  finally  broke  three  hours 
of  silent  sewing,  "  that's  done!  What  time  is  it?  " 

"  Half-past  eleven !  "  Mr.  Martin  informed  her. 
"  Let's  go  to  bed." 

"  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  slowly,  "  I've  been 
thinking  of  something  as  I  sat  here.  And  I  want  you 
to  say  yes.  I  know  you'll  think  I'm  a  fool  but,  oh, 
you  don't  know  how  much  I'd  like  to  do  it." 

"  Shoot!  "  Mr.  Martin  ordered  with  calmness. 

w  I'd  like  to  have  a  Christmas  Tree."  Before  her 
husband  could  object,  Mrs.  Martin  rushed  into 

explanation.  "  You  see,  with  all  those  presents 

We  can't  put  them  on  the  table,  they're  too  big  and 

bulky And  then  a  Christmas  Tree  looks  so 

pretty." 

"  Will  the  stores  be  open  tomorrow?  "  Mr.  Mar- 
tin asked. 

"  I  don't  know.  But  I  thought  some  of  them 
might  still  be  open.  Phoebe  left  the  key  of  her 
house  with  me  and  I  know  just  where  she  keeps  the 
Christmas  Tree  trimmings.  I  thought  that  I  could  go 
over  there  early  tomorrow  and  get  them.  I'll  have 
plenty  of  time  to  dress  the  Tree  in  the  afternoon. 
Would  you  mind  walking  down  to  the  Centre  now 
just  on  the  chance  that  the  stores  aren't  all  closed?  " 

"  In  this  storm !  "  Mr.  Martin  ejaculated. 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  181 

"  It's  stopped  snowing,"  Mrs.  Martin  pleaded. 
"  It  isn't  so  very  far." 

"  All  right,"  Mr.  Martin  agreed  suddenly. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  it  stormed!"  Mrs.  Martin 
exclaimed  as  they  came  into  the  yard.  "  Phoebe  will 
be  so  delighted.  The  children  want  to  do  just  the 
things  Tug  did  when  he  was  a  boy  at  Uncle  Jerry's. 
Besides  Christmas  doesn't  really  seem  like  Christmas 
without  snow. 

It  had  been  a  heavy  storm.  The  snow  lay  every- 
where in  great  unbroken  drifts.  And  in  the  sky, 
like  the  reflections  of  it,  lay  drifts,  almost  as  thick,  of 
cloud.  There  was  no  moon,  but  in  the  wide  black 
cloud-rifts  were  piled  stars  that  dropped  a  brilliant 
glitter  on  a  world,  already  frost-silvered. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin  passed  through  a  street 
which  held  twin  rows  of  holiday  celebrations.  In 
many  houses,  curtains  were  up  displaying  Christmas 
Trees  that  had  become  cones  solid  with  gleam  and 
color.  The  main  street  into  which  they  presently 
turned  was  more  reticent.  The  few  big  old  family 
mansions  sat  back  behind  shrouding  shrubbery,  and 
the  group  of  stores  at  the  end  did  not  emit  a  ray  of 
light. 

"  Everything  seems  to  be  closed  up  tight  as  a 
drum,"  Mr.  Martin  commented.  "  I'm  afraid  you'll 
have  to  go  without  your  tree." 

"Well,     keep     on,"     Mrs.     Martin    persisted. 


182  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Maybe  O'Brien  will  be  open.  Let's  cross  over 
and  see.  There's  a  chance  he  will  be  working  late. 

No,  Fm  afraid  he's  gone  home.  Sometimes  he 

Edward!  What  are  those  things  lying  in  the  street? 
For  the  land's  sake,  they're  Christmas  Trees!  Why, 
how  did  they  come  here?  Oh,  I  know  what's  hap- 
pened !  O'Brien's  cleaned  his  shop  up,  ready  for  the 
day  after  Christmas,  and  thrown  away  all  the  trees 
he  hasn't  sold.  We  can  take  any  one  we  want.  Now, 
let's  look  them  all  over." 

Mrs.  Martin  finally  made  her  selection;  but  only 
after  Mr.  Martin  had  lifted  upright  every  tree  on 
the  street.  Her  choice  was  a  sapling,  thick  and  round 
at  the  base  but  tapering  to  a  delicate  slimness.  Mr. 
Martin  seized  it  by  the  thick  end,  Mrs.  Martin  by 
the  slim  one.  They  proceeded  back  through  the 
snow. 

"  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  exclaimed  suddenly, 
"  would  you  mind  if  I  stopped  at  Phoebe's  now  and 
got  that  box  of  Christmas  trimmings?  It  will  save 
me  the  trip  tomorrow.  I  can  carry  it  perfectly  well 
under  my  other  arm." 

"  No,  of  course  I  don't  mind,"  Mr.  Martin  said 
patiently,  "  only  it  seems  rather  foolish.  We  can 
go  around  there  tomorrow  morning  so  much  easier. 
And  you  don't  need  it  till  then." 

"  I  would  like  to  get  it  now — ever  so  much, 
Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  pleaded  humbly. 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  183 

"  All  right,"  Mr.  Martin  gave  way.  "  But  we 
can't  get  in,"  he  added  hopefully. 

"  I — I  brought  the  key,"  Mrs.  Martin  faltered. 

Mr.  Martin  laughed.  "  Framed  on  me,  did  you?  " 
he  accused  his  wife. 

"  Well,"  Mr.  Martin  said  fifteen  minutes  later, 
as  he  sat  the  tree  up  in  the  big  window  of  the  living- 
room,  "  one  thing  I'm  glad  of — it's  got  a  stand.  I 
don't  have  to  make  one  for  you.  Now,  let's  go  to 
bed." 

"  You  go  to  bed,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  coaxed. 
"  I'm  going  to  stay  up  a  little  while." 

;<  What  under  the  canopy  are  you  going  to  do 
now?  "  Mr.  Martin  demanded. 

'  Trim  the  Christmas  Tree,"  Mrs.  Martin  con- 
fessed. "  Now  don't  try  to  dissuade  me.  I'm  going 
to  do  it.  I  feel  just  like  it.  You  go  to  bed — you're 
tired." 

"  All  right,"  Mr.  Martin  said  with  a  surprising 
degree  of  resignation,  "  but  I'm  not  so  very  tired. 
I  guess  I'll  stay  up  and  help  you." 

1  You're  wanted  on  the  telephone,  Mrs.  Martin," 
one  of  the  maids  said  towards  the  close  of  the 
Christmas  dinner. 

"  All  right.  Keep  those  doors  closed,  Annie.  I 
shan't  be  able  to  hear  a  word  with  all  this  hullaba- 
loo." Mrs.  Martin  went  into  the  hall  and  took  up 


1 84  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

the  receiver.     "  Hello !    Hello !  "  she  called  into  it. 

"Hello,  is  that  you,  mother?"  Phoebe's  voice 
answered. 

"  Yes,  Merry  Christmas,  Phoebe !  " 

"  Merry  Christmas  to  you  and  father!  I've  been 
trying  to  get  you  all  day,  but  I  couldn't  do  it  until 
now.  This  is  my  Christmas  present  to  myself — a 
long-distance  talk  with  you.  I  was  afraid  you'd  be 
lonely  and  I  was  afraid  you'd  think  I  would  be 

lonely.  But  I  haven't  been Mother,  I've  had 

one  of  the  most  wonderful  Christmases  I've  ever 
had  in  my  life.  In  the  first  place,  Uncle  Jerry  is  a 
perfect  darling — the  sweetest,  gentlest,  kindest  little 
old  man  you  ever  saw,  and  Aunt  Louise  is  just  as 
fascinating,  the  prettiest,  dearest,  duckiest  little  old 
lady.  All  little  bobbing  curls  and  pink  cheeks,  and 
the  tiniest  hands  and  feet.  Well,  do  you  know,  after 
we  got  up  here  and  we  saw  how  quiet  the  house  was 
— Uncle  Jerry  almost  bed-ridden — Tug  and  I  de- 
cided that  we  were  going  to  make  a  regular  Christ- 
mas for  them.  I  told  Aunt  Louise  that  if  it  would 
be  a  help  to  her,  I'd  just  love  to  get  up  the  Christ- 
mas dinner.  When  she  saw  that  I  really  was  crazy 
to  do  it,  she  admitted  that  she'd  love  to  eat  a 
dinner  that  somebody  else  had  cooked.  She  told  me 
she  couldn't  remember  when  she'd  had  a  meal  in  any- 
body else's  house.  So  yesterday  Tug  and  I  motored 
over  to  Akron  and  I  bought  the  stuff  for  one  of  my 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  185 

regular  Christmas  dinners — you  know,  what  I  always 
have,  grapefruit,  cream  of  spinach  with  whipped 
cream  floating  on  it,  mushrooms  on  toast,  and  turkey 
with  all  the  vegetables,  romaine  salad,  with  grapes 
and  nuts — plum  pudding " 

"  Yes,  I  know,1'  Mrs.  Martin  interpolated. 

"  Well,  I  turned  Aunt  Louise  right  out  of  the 
kitchen,  and  if  you  can  believe  it,  I  cooked  that  entire 
dinner  myself.  Of  course  Eliza,  Aunt  Louise's 
maid,  and  Bertha-Elizabeth  helped.  If  I  do  say  it 
as  shouldn't,  it  was  some  dinner.  Tug  says  if  I 
wasn't  his  wife,  he'd  offer  me  a  job  as  his  cook  any 
day.  I  can't  tell  you  how  Aunt  Louise  and  Uncle 
Jerry  enjoyed  it!  And  I  served  everything  in  as 
fancy  a  way  as  I  knew  how.  I  scooped  the  grape- 
fruit out  of  the  shell  and  scalloped  the  edges — 
awfully  hard  work " 

"  I  know,"  Mrs.  Martin  interrupted.  "  I've 
been  doing  it  myself." 

"  But  that  isn't  half  of  it,"  Phoebe  went  on,  un- 
heeding. "  Tug  learned  that  Uncle  Jerry  was  dying 
to  hear  some  Christmas  music.  You  see,  there's  no 
way  that  he  can  hear  any  music  nowadays.  So,  what 
do  you  think  Tug  did?  He  hired  the  best  church- 
choir  in  Akron  to  come  over  here  Christmas  eve  and 
serenade  Uncle  Jerry.  They  agreed  to  be  here 
promptly  at  nine.  And  just  as  the  clock  struck,  I 
opened  one  of  the  windows  at  the  top.  They  began 


186  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

singing  Christmas  carols  the  instant  they  turned  into 
the  drive.  You  have  no  idea  how  wonderful  it 
sounded — beginning  way  off — very  faint — in  the  dis- 
tance and  then  coming  nearer  and  nearer  and  getting 
louder  and  louder  with  the  sleigh-bells  making  sort 
of  a  gay  accompaniment.  And  if  you  could  have 
seen  Uncle  Jerry  prick  up  his  ears!  And  how  his 
eyes  shone  when  it  dawned  upon  him  what  was  hap- 
pening! Of  course  I  had  made  hot  coffee  and  sand- 
wiches for  the  choir.  And  they  all  came  in  and  sang 
around  the  piano  for  nearly  an  hour." 

"  I'd  admire  to  have  heard  that,"  Mrs.  Martin 
said. 

"That's  not  half  the  story,"  Phoebe  sped  on. 
"  Tug  and  I  made  up  our  minds  on  the  way  home 
from  Akron  that  we'd  got  to  have  a  Christmas 

tree We  found  there  wasn't  a  tree  to  be  bought 

in  Braeburn.  So  what  do  you  think  we  did?  While 
the  children  were  busy  coasting,  Tug  and  I  went  out 
in  the  woods  and  chopped  a  tree  down.  We  had  the 
greatest  time  manoeuvering  so's  to  get  it  in  the 
back  way  without  anybody  seeing  it.  Tug  had  to 
make  a  frame  for  it  to  stand  in  and — well,  you  know 
how  much  of  a  carpenter  Tug  is !  I  only  hope  the 
Recording  Angel  didn't  hear  his  language.  Then 
late  at  night,  after  all  those  choir  people  had  left  and 
everybody  else  had  gone  to  bed,  downstairs  we  came 
and  trimmed  that  tree.  We  hadn't  been  able  to  get 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  187 

any  Christmas  trimmings  in  Braeburn — only  can- 
dles— and  so  what  do  you  suppose  we  did?  We  got 
Eliza  to  string  cranberries  and  popcorn.  And  that 
was  all  there  was  on  that  tree  except  tufts  of  cotton- 
wool and  candles  and  confetti.  But  it  looked  lovely. 
I  wished  you  could  have  seen  everybody's  face  when 
we  led  them  into  the  parlor  after  breakfast.  The 
children  were  simply  crazy  about  the  tree — they'd 
always  had  their  trees  lighted  by  electricity.  It  was 
so  different  from  any  that  they  had  ever  seen.  Aunt 
Louise  said  she  was  going  to  keep  it  standing  the 
whole  year.  I've  called  you  up  partly  to  tell  you  that 
this  is  what  became  of  my  quiet,  simple  Christmas. 
Quiet!  I  never  worked  so  hard  in  all  my  life.  Just 
think — I  made  the  coffee  and  sandwiches  Christmas 
eve!  After  midnight  I  trimmed  the  tree.  This 
morning  I  cooked  the  Christmas  dinner.  Oh,  another 
thing  that  delighted  Aunt  Louise !  I  had  slipped  an 
evening  dress  in  my  suitcase — you  know  my  pink 
crepe  de  chine  with  all  that  glittery  rhinestone  trim- 
ming— and  I  put  it  on  for  dinner.  Aunt  Louise  said 
nobody  had  ever  worn  such  a  beautiful  dress  in  her 
house.  I've  never  spent  a  happier  Christmas  any- 
where. And  somehow,  notwithstanding  how  I've 
worked,  I  feel  rested.  I've  been  out  of  doors  all  the 
time.  Tug  and  I  have  skated  and  coasted  with  the 
children  every  day.  Tug  says  he  never  was  so  sur- 
prised in  all  his  life  to  find  out  how  that  hill  in  front 


1 88  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

of  the  house  had  shrunk.  It's  really  only  a  mound 
and  he  said  he  remembered  it  as  almost  a  mountain. 
As  for  the  lake  back  of  the  barn,  it  isn't  a  lake  at  all. 
It  isn't  a  pond  even.  It's  a  pondlet.  But  oh,  what 
fun  we've  had  skating  on  it!  " 

"  And  of  course  the  children  are  having  a  wonder- 
ful time,"  Mrs.  Martin  commented. 

"  You  should  see  them.  Bertha-Elizabeth  has 
such  pink  cheeks  and  eyes  like  stars!  Sometimes  I 
think  she's  going  to  be  pretty,  after  all.  Toland 
has  been  driving  a  pung  ever  since  he  got  here; 
morning,  noon,  and  night !  And  as  for  Edward  and 
Micah — they  are  coasting  or  skating  every  moment. 
They've  made  a  whole  family  of  snow  men  and 
women.  I've  never  seen  my  children  more  happy. 
If  only  Phoebe-Girl  were  here " 

1  You  may  be  sure  she's  having  her  Christmas 
too,"  Mrs.  Martin's  voice  lowered  to  the  deepest 
depth  of  tender  certainty.  "  Is  Hope  all  right?  " 

"  Sleeps  like  a  little  top.  And  cheeks — mother, 
her  cheeks  are  like  cherries.  And — I  don't  know 
what's  caused  it — maybe  it's  the  cold;  but  her  hair 
has  crisped  up  into  the  loveliest  fine  ringlets.  It's 
like  spun  glass." 

"  I'm  so  glad  your  visit's  turned  out  so  well." 
Mrs.  Martin's  voice  arose  to  its  brisk  normal  tone. 

"  I  hope,  mother  darling,"  Phoebe  resumed,  "  that 
you  and  father  haven't  been  too  lonely.  I've  really 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  189 

felt  wicked  enjoying  myself  so  much  when  you 

What's  that  music  I  hear  and  all  that  laughing?  " 

"  It's  the  victrola  your  father  gave  me  for  Christ- 
mas," Mrs.  Martin  exclaimed.  "  And  it's  playing 
a  medley  of  old  songs — songs  that  you've  never 
heard,  '  Oh,  How  I  Love  My  Ada !  '  '  In  the  Gloam- 
ing/ 'Up-I-Dee,'  'Over  the  Garden  Wall."1  She 
called  away  from  the  telephone :  "  Please  shut  the 
door,  Annie.  Your  father  gave  me  a  beautiful 

wrist-watch,  Phoebe,  too — just  like  one Oh, 

I've  been  far  from  lonely,  Phoebe.  We've  had  the 
most  lovely  Christmas.  In  the  first  place  we  invited 
some  old  friends  to  dinner.  Do  you  remember  ever 
hearing  me  mention  Sam  and  Lou  Davis?  " 

"  All  my  life,"  Phoebe  answered. 

[<  Well,    they   happened   to   be    in    Boston 

(Please  shut  the  door,  and  keep  it  shut,  Annie!) 
What  a  racket  those  people  are  making!  Can  you 
hear  me,  Phoebe?  " 

1  Yes,  mother,"  Phoebe  answered,  "  are  you  hav- 
ing a  party?  " 

Mrs.  Martin  proceeded  in  dashes  of  narrative 
that  for  conciseness  and  speed  might  have  been  Phoe- 
be's own  compressed  phraseology.  The  door,  open- 
ing and  shutting,  let  out  roars  of  laughter,  continued 
vociferous  calls  for  Mrs.  Martin  herself;  bursts  of 
music  from  the  victrola — "  dinner  with  us  the  first 
Christmas  after  we  were  married — funniest  thing 


190  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

you  ever  heard  of — Lou  embroidered  a  handker- 
chief-case for  me  exactly  like  the  one  she  gave  me 
then — a  cretonne  catch-all,  as  much  like  the  one  I 
gave  her  forty  years — (Yes,  Debbie,  I'm  coming  as 
soon  as  possible ;  I'm  talking  to  Phoebe.  Please  shut 
the  door!) — first  thing  I  knew  there  were  ten  of  us 
— just  as  elaborate  dinner  as  yours — lot  of  it  myself 
— scraped  the  grapefruit — scalloped  the  edges — 
made  the  pudding  and  pies." 

"  I  should  think  you'd  be  tired  out,  mother." 

"  I  suppose  I'll  be  dead  tomorrow — haven't  felt 
so  fresh  and  gay  in  years — I  feel  young — laughed 
until  my  sides  ache — (Yes,  Sam,  I'll  be  back  in  a 
few  moments,  I'm  talking  to  my  daughter.  Yes,  if 
you  please,  close  the  door!) — nine  courses — not  a 
clean  bit  of  china  or  silver  in  this  house — at  the  last 
moment,  just  like  you — decided  to  have  a  tree — 
lying  in  the  snow — stopped  in  your  house  at  that 
hour — your  Christmas  tree  trimmings — worked  till 
three  in  the  morning — joke-presents — Sam  and  Ed- 
ward had  bought — drums — horns— whistles — every- 
body in  gales  of  laughter — without  my  knowing  it 
your  father  smuggled  Tug's  Santa  Claus  costume  out 
of  your  house — last  moment  came  to  the  table 
dressed  as  Santa  Claus " 

"  I  bet  my  father  looked  stunning!  "  Phoebe  said 
proudly. 

"  Yes,  he— (Yes,  Mrs.  Seaver,  I'll  be  there  in  a 


THE  ETERNAL  SANTA  GLAUS  191 

jiffy.  I'm  talking  with  Phoebe.  Do  you  mind  clos- 
ing the  door?  You're  making  such  a  racket  in  there, 
I  can't  hear  a  word  Phoebe's  saying.)  He  certainly 
did  look  stunning,  Phoebe." 

"  What  are  you  wearing,  mother?  " 

"  My  evening  dress — the  gray  and  silver — (In 
just  a  few  minutes,  Mr.  Torrey  I  You  see  my  daugh- 
ter has  just  long-distanced  me.  Yes,  please  close  the 
door.  It  sounds  as  if  there  were  a  hundred  of  you !) 
— all  wearing  those  paper  caps  that  come  out  of 
bonbons — if  you  could  see  Lou  Davis  in  a — she  and 
Debbie  have  raised  Cain  ever  since  they  got  to- 
gether." 

''Well,  mother,"  Phoebe  declared,  "I'm  glad 
you're  having  such  a  good  time.  I've  been  revising 
my  ideas  about  Christmas.  I  understand  now  what 
it  really  means.  The  idea  of  Christmas  is  to  give. 
It  doesn't  make  any  difference  what  kind  of  giving 
it  is — whether  it's  simple  or  complicated — as  long 
as  it's  real  giving,  I've  really  never  worked  harder 
in  all  my  life  as  in  these  last  few  days.  But  I  don't 
mind  it,  because  the  people  I  did  it  for  needed  it  so 
much  and  enjoyed  it  so  much.  It  was  real  giving.. 
I'm  going  to  try  and  remember  that  every  Christ- 
mas after  this." 

"  I  think  you're  right,  Phoebe,"  her  mother 
agreed.  "  If  you're  doing  something  whole-heart- 
edly and  especially  for  somebody  you  love — there's 


192  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

no  hard  work  about  it.  It's  fun !  (Yes,  Mr.  Marsh, 
in  just  one  minute.)  You  see " 

"  Mother,  I'm  not  going  to  keep  you  here  any 
longer,  you're  all  together  too  popular.  Besides  my 
children  are  calling  to  me.  Merry  Christmas 
again!  " 

"  Merry  Christmas,  Phoebe !  "  her  mother  an- 
swered. "  Yes,  Mr.  Rogers,  I'm  coming  now," 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET 

"rr^HE  old  Murphy  house  has  been  let  during 

A     our  absence,"  observed  Phoebe. 

"  Oh,  you  haven't  heard!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brod- 
beck.  "  Why,  that's  been  the  sensation  of  the  sum- 
mer among  the  stay-at-homes." 

"  No,  of  course,"  Phoebe  admitted  indignantly. 
'*  Tug  would  never  think  to  tell  me  anything  interest- 
ing like  that." 

"  The  Days  have  taken  it,"  Mrs.  Brodbeck  con- 
tinued. "  The  Mrs.  Day.  You  know,  Phoebe,  Mrs. 
Carl  Day — you  remember  that  scandal  last  year 
across  the  river." 

"  Oh,  I  do  remember !  "  said  Phoebe.  "  I  thought 
they  left  town." 

4  There  was  some  talk  of  their  going,"  inter- 
posed Mrs.  Fall.  "  I  don't  see  why  they  didn't, 
myself.  What's  the  use  of  staying  in  a  town  after 
a  thing  like  that?  You  never  can  live  it  down." 

'  They  say  he  wanted  to  go,"  explained  Mrs. 
Meredith.  "  And  she  didn't.  She  realized  his  busi- 
ness interests  were  here  and  his  friends  and  every- 

193 


194  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

thing,  and  I  guess  she  thought  that  the  story  would 
follow  her  wherever  she  went.  They'd  have  had 
to  live  within  a  short  distance  of  Maywood,  anyway, 
and  so  they  stayed.  Perhaps  she  thinks  she  can 
live  it  down.  I  should  have  left  myself." 

"  I  don't  know  how  I'd  act  in  a  case  like  that," 
meditated  Phoebe  in  an  uncharacteristic  instant  of 
indecision.  u  What  would  you  do,  mother?  " 

"  I'd  do  exactly  what  Mrs.  Day  is  doing,"  Mrs. 
Martin  replied.  "  But  it  won't  be  a  bed  of  roses 
for  her,  whatever  course  she  takes,  you  may  be  sure 
of  that.  If  I  were " 

"  Mother,"  a  voice  interrupted,  "  can  I  keep  this 
puppy?" 

The  women  turned. 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  say  which  looked 
the  most  disreputable,  the  boy  who  held  the  puppy 
in  his  arms,  or  the  puppy  who  nestled  so  confidingly 
there.  But  the  puppy — a  blend  of  many  breeds,  con- 
centrated into  one  nondescript  bundle  of  long,  matted 
hair  and  big  imploring  eyes — was  at  least  intact. 
The  boy's  face  was  not  dirty,  it  was  encrusted.  His 
shirtwaist  was  torn;  one  khaki  trouser  leg  un- 
strapped at  the  knee  flapped  about  his  ankle.  The 
other  disclosed  a  generous  tear  at  the  stocking-knee. 

"Edward  Warburton!"  Phoebe's  voice  held  as 
much  resignation  as  vexation.  "  How  did  you  get 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET     195 

11  We've  been  chasing  him  all  over  the  marsh — 
me  and  Freddie  and  Tom.  Gee,  mother,  he  was 
scairt  of  me !  At  first,  his  heart  beat  like — like 
anything!  But  now  he's  all  right.  He  likes  me. 
Aw,  let  me  keep  him,  mother!  " 

Phoebe  sighed.  "  Go  right  upstairs,  Edward,  and 
wash  your  face  and  hands;  change  your  stockings. 
When  you  have  done  that,  come  down  and  let  me 
see  how  clean  you  are.  If  you  look  like  a  human 
being,  then  you  can  give  the  puppy  a  bath." 

"Can  I  keep  him,  mother?"  Edward  pleaded. 
"  She  oughtta  let  me,  grandma,  oughtn't  she?"  he 
turned  to  Mrs.  Martin. 

Mrs.  Martin  maintained  a  discreet,  twinkling- 
eyed  silence. 

"  I'll  see,"  Phoebe  temporized,  "  what  he  looks 
like  after  the  bath  and  what  your  father 
says." 

Edward  disappeared. 

Phoebe  glared  about  the  circle. 

"  Don't  try  to  put  it  in  words,  Phoebe,"  Mrs. 
Meredith  besought  her.  "  Don't  struggle  with  the 
inexpressible.  Only  let  me  say  that  we  are  blood 
sisters  in  emotion  at  this  moment.  Elliott  came  to 
his  father  last  night  with  a  little  live  alligator 
somebody'd  given  him  and  a  proposition  to  raise 
alligators  in  the  back  yard." 

"  I  forgot  what  that  Day  sr    Jal  was  exactly," 


ig6  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Phoebe  took  up  their  conversation  finally.     "  Pretty 
awful,  wasn't  it?  " 

u  Yes,"   answered   Mrs.   Meredith.      "  Another 
man " 

"How  long  have  they  been  here?"  Phoebe  in- 
terrupted. 

u  They  moved  in  the  first  of  July,"  Mrs.  Fall 
answered. 

"  Has  anybody  been  to  call?  "  queried  Phoebe. 

"  Oh  no!"  Mrs.  Brodbeck's  emphasis  was  as 
forceful  as  it  was  hasty.  "  Naturally,  nobody  wants 
to  go  there." 

"What  does  she  look  like?"  Phoebe  went  on. 
"  I've  never  seen  her." 

"  She's  rather  a  pretty  little  thing,"  Mrs.  Brod- 
beck  returned.  "  Blonde,  fluffy,  cute — dresses  very 
smartly.  She's  changed  a  lot  since  this  business — 
there's  a  look  in  her  eyes " 

"What  sort  of  a  man  is  Carl  Day?"  inquired 
Phoebe. 

"  I've  never  seen  him,"  answered  Mrs.  Fall. 
"  But  Billy  knows  him  and  likes  him — they  meet  at 
the  Gym.  Billy  says  he's  a  fine  fellow.  He's  older 
than  she — quite  a  bit — and  a  little  deaf." 

"  Well,"  Phoebe  declared,  "  I  should  say  he  was 
either  a  fool  or  a  hero."  She  craned  her  head  to 
look  again  at  the  house  across  the  street,  as  though 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET     197 

now  it  would  present  a  new  aspect  to  her.  u  Have 
they  any  children?  " 

u  '  A  gentleman  or  a  boob  '  is  the  way  Elliott 
puts  it,"  Mrs.  Meredith  said,  dimpling.  "  No,  they 
have  no  children. " 

"  And  a  great  blessing,  too,"  commented  Mrs. 
Brodbeck. 

In  every  possible  detail,  the  house  across  the  street 
contrasted  with  the  ample  Colonial  simplicity  of 
the  house  on  whose  piazza  the  five  women  sat.  It 
was  small  and  new,  architecturally  much  cut-up.  The 
vines,  which  had  done  their  meager  best  in  one  sum- 
mer's growth  to  cover  the  piazza,  had,  at  the  ap- 
proach of  autumn,  given  up  the  struggle;  had  faded 
and  shriveled  to  strings  of  rattling  green.  The  mats 
of  nasturtiums,  however,  which  bordered  the  stone 
foundation  of  the  house,  still  showed  many  spurts  of 
blossom-fire.  Dahlias  and  asters  in  big  patches  at 
the  side  kept  this  blaze  alive,  and  the  fire  had  ap- 
parently run  underground  to  burst  into  flame  in  the 
file  of  maple  trees  that  made  a  procession  of  torches 
across  the  back. 

It  was  one  of  those  days  in  middle  autumn — - 
Indian  summer  in  quality — which,  judging  it  on  its 
merits,  might  belong  to  any  one  of  three  seasons. 
In  the  air,  the  freshness  of  spring,  the  softness  of 
summer,  the  crispness  of  autumn,  all  touched  with 
the  odor  of  burning  leaves,  struggled  for  supremacy. 


198  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

The  six  women  sat  on  the  glassed-in  side  piazza 
looking  over  the  tennis  courts  towards  the  barn.  A 
fire  burnt  in  the  outdoor  fireplace,  but  the  door  to 
the  piazza  was  open  and  one  of  the  windows.  They 
sat  without  wraps,  all  sewing  or  knitting — a  haphaz- 
ard, suburban  group,  ranging  in  type  and  age  from 
Phoebe's  lustrous,  virile,  deep-tinted  youth,  to  Mrs. 
Martin's  sparse,  white-haired,  finely  characterized 
middle  age  including,  like  way-stations  in  the  prog- 
ress of  womanhood,  Sylvia's  approaching-forty 
combination  of  a  delicately  faded  blondness  and  a 
high-burning  spirituality;  Mrs.  Meredith's  dusky, 
dimpled,  kittenish  bridehood;  Mrs.  Fall's  placid 
young  motherhood,  broad-browed  and  deep-eyed; 
and  Mrs.  Brodbeck's  comfortable  matronliness, 
grizzled  but  vivacious. 

"  We  didn't  get  home  until  day  before  yesterday," 
Phoebe  exclaimed  thoughtfully,  "  and  of  course  as  it 
never  entered  Tug's  head  to  tell  me  that  the  Murphy 
house  was  taken,  it  never  occurred  to  me.  I've  been 
so  busy  that  it  wasn't  until  this  morning  that  I  noticed 
the  curtains  in  the  window.  I  think  they  must  be 
away,  because  I  haven't  seen  any  lights  at  night. 
There !  There's  somebody  driving  up  now — I  guess 
they've  come  back." 

Involuntarily  the  six  women  stopped  their  sewing 
to  stare.  One  of  the  station  carriages,  proceeding 
briskly  up  the  street,  had  stopped  in  front  of  the  Day 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET     199 

house.  Out  of  it  came  a  single  figure — that  of  an  old 
man.  He  carried  an  enormous  telescope  suitcase  in 
one  hand  and  an  enormous  unfurled  umbrella  in  the 
other.  Both,  obviously  cheap,  were  obviously  new. 
He  plunged  one  hand  in  his  pocket  and  withdrew  it. 
He  let  the  driver  pick  out  his  pay  from  a  handful  of 
change  with  a  remark  that  sent  him  away  smiling. 
Then  the  old  man  mounted  the  steps  of  the  piazza 
and  rang  the  doorbell. 

"  Unexpected  company,"  commented  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith. 

"  It's  the  first  time  I've  seen  anybody  go  there," 
remarked  Mrs.  Brodbeck. 

The  old  man  waited,  then  rang  the  bell  again. 
Nothing  happened.  After  an  interval  he  tried  the 
doorknob.  The  door  did  not  open.  Depositing  the 
suitcase  and  umbrella  against  the  side  of  the  house, 
he  descended  the  steps;  walked  around  to  the  back 
of  the  house. 

"  He's  trying  the  back  door,"  Mrs.  Fall  explained. 
"  Perhaps  they've  left  it  open  for  him." 

"Nice-looking  old  man,  isn't  he?"  Mrs.  Brod- 
beck remarked. 

'  Very,"  Phoebe  agreed.  "  It's  queer  about  peo- 
ple, isn't  it  ?  Some  of  them  you  like  right  off.  I  know 
I  like  him  just  by  the  look  of  his  back." 

The  old  man  reappeared,  returning  from  the  back 
of  the  house.  He  reascended  the  steps.  He  went 


200  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

about  from  window  to  window,  trying  them  all. 
Finally,  he  sat  down  in  one  of  the  big  piazza  chair, 
a  monument  to  the  quiet  patience  which  only  old  age 
learns  to  exercise. 

"  He's  evidently  come  to  stay,"  concluded  Mrs. 
Meredith. 

"  I  wonder  when  the  Days  will  get  back,"  Mrs. 
Brodbeck  meditated,  a  little  uneasily. 

Nobody  answered.  The  six  women  went  on  with 
their  sewing.  Occasionally  a  head  turned  and  a 
glance  stole  across  the  street  to  the  quiet  figure  on  the 
piazza. 

"  Do  I  look  all  right  now,  mother?  "  Edward's 
voice  interrupted. 

The  women  turned  and  surveyed  the  figure  in  the 
doorway. 

Edward  had  done  nobly.  Stockings  and  waist 
were  changed;  trousers  were  tight.  His  cheeks  and 
chin  glowed  with  soap  polish.  A  triangle  of 
untouched  smut  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead  stood 
out  more  luridly,  however,  because  of  its  contrast  to 
contiguous  cleanliness. 

"  Come  here,  Edward,"  Phoebe  commanded  in  a 
tone  noble  with  resignation.  She  took  a  little  mirror 
from  her  sewing-basket.  "  Look!  "  She  held  it  out 
to  him. 

Edward  looked  into  the  mirror.  Phoebe  looked  at 
Edward.  And  in  spite  of  herself,  her  pride  in  him 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET     201 

filled  her  eyes.  Phoebe's  children  were  all  comely. 
Bertha-Elizabeth  was  spirit-faced  and  unusual;  To- 
land  junior,  a  giant,  early-teens  reproduction  of  his 
father's  virility  and  vitality.  The  lost  Phoebe-Girl 
had  been  a  rose-and-snow  wonder  of  velvet  surfaces; 
dimpled  contours.  Micah  had  the  taut,  coppery 
picturesqueness  of  a  baby  Indian.  Hope's  chubby, 
pink-cheeked  blonde  infancy  promised  much.  But 
Edward 

Edward  was  a  young  prince.  Caste — race — 
breeding — all  those  qualities  we  obstinately  insist 
on  imputing  to  royalty  lay  in  his  graceful,  supple 
lines.  And  as  for  his  colors — secretly  Phoebe 
yearned  for  the  ministrations  of  a  Reynolds  or  a 
Hoppner.  A  complexion  of  Team  and  amber;  eyes 
of  a  vibrant  gray  that  thrilled,  under  emotion,  to 
gold;  hair,  tawny-brown,  flashing  gold  too  and 
breaking  everywhere  into  heavy  ripples. 

"  Gee,  I  didn't  see  that — honest,  mother,  I  didnfit. 
I  just  washed  my  cheeks  and  mouth.  Generally,  it  is 
my  cheeks  and  mouth  that  get  dirty — you  know  that, 
mother.  I  scarcely  ever  bother  about  my  forehead. 
Why,  days  and  days  when  I  get  up  in  the  morning, 
it's  perfectly  clean  and  I  don't  have  to  touch  it." 

Phoebe  sighed — obviously  after  whirling  in  con- 
flicting emotions.  "  Go  up  and  try  again,  Edward," 
she  ordered  with  a  stony  patience. 

"  But  can  I  keep  the  puppy?  " 


202  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  We'll  see.  Don't  get  the  soap  in  his  eyes  when 
you  wash  him." 

"  Well,"  Phoebe  went  on  at  once.  "  I  think  he'll 
get  it  clean  this  time.  Now,  tell  me  all  the  rest  of  the 
gossip.  What's  happened  during  my  absence  ?  " 

"  Well,  everything's  happened,"  began  Mrs.  Mer- 
edith. "  Or  nothing's  happened — just  as  you  choose 
to  look  at  it.  Fred  Towne  broke  his  arm  just  the 
day  before  they  were  to  start  on  their  vacation. 
Lou  Dodge's  baby  came  three  weeks  ahead  of  time. 
The  nurse  wasn't  there  nor  the  doctor,  and  Lou  said 
she  never  paid  any  bills  so  grudgingly  as  those  two, 
seeing  that  she  did  all  the  work  herself.  Little  Molly 
Mayo  has  acquired  the  running-away  habit  and  the 
whole  neighborhood  has  to  watch  her.  Phil  Murray 
was  nearly  drowned  in  swimming.  The  Doanes' 
house  caught  on  fire  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and 
would  have  burnt  if  the  dog  hadn't  roused  them 
by  barking — oh  yes,  and  Henry  Abbott  woke  up  one 
night  and  caught  a  burglar  going  through  his  trous- 
ers pockets.  The  Lund  cat  has  had  kittens.  I  think 
that's  about  all.  Still,  I  could  scare  up  some  more 
items  equally  exciting  if  I  only  had  time.  Oh,  my 
goodness,  yes — Mary  Fenton  had  her  pocket  picked 
and- " 

"  He's  coming  over  here,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Brodbeck. 

The  old  man  had  risen  from  his  chair  on  the 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET    203 

piazza,  had  come  hesitatingly  down  the  piazza  steps, 
and  was  coming  hesitatingly  across  the  street.  He 
opened  the  Warburton  gate  and  started  hesitatingly 
up  the  path.  Phoebe  arose. 

"  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me  for  interrupting  this 
little  sewing-bee,"  the  old  man  said.  "  My  name  is 
Davis/' 

He  was  little  and  slender,  but  very  erect,  white- 
haired,  and  white-bearded,  the  type  which  both  grace- 
less caricature  and  serious  illustration  have  taught  us 
to  believe  predominates  in  what  is  left  of  the  Grand 
Army  of  the  Republic.  His  broad-brimmed  hat,  his 
alert,  erect  carriage  helped  in  this  resemblance.  His 
face  was  old  and  peaked,  whitish  and  lined,  but  his 
smile  brought  a  great  deal  of  illumination  to  it.  He 
smiled  now.  His  eyes  twinkled  and  little  concentric 
colonies  of  wrinkles  at  their  corners  seemed  to  pass 
the  twinkle  on  to  other  concentric  colonies  of 
wrinkles  about  his  lips. 

Mr.  Davis  looked  about  him  with  the  air  of  one 
who  has  absolutely  established  his  identity.  His 
look  met  no  response  from  the  six  faces.  He  added : 
"  Elijah  Davis — from  Saugus,  Vermont — Mrs. 
Day's  father.  You're  Mrs.  Warburton,  aren't 
you?  "  he  asked  in  sudden  alarm.  Then  at  Phoebe's 
bow  of  assent  and  "  Won't  you  come  up,  Mr. 
Davis?"  the  alarm  changed  to  serenity.  He 
mounted  the  piazza  steps,  talking  all  the  time. 


204  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

4  That's  all  right  then.  I've  come  down  here  to  pay 
Dolly  a  little  visit.  This  is  the  first  time  I've  been 
to  see  her  since  she  was  married.  I'm  ashamed  to  tell 
you  that;  but  it's  the  truth.  Always  been  intendin'  to 
do  it,  but  never  quite  made  it.  And  now  I'm  here,  I 
tell  you,  ladies,  I  feel  good  and  ashamed  to  think  of 
the  way  I've  neglected  the  best  little  daughter  that  a 
man  ever  had.  But  I  guess  I  don't  have  to  tell  you 
what  kind  of  a  girl  Dolly  is,  because  I  know  just  as 
well  as  you  do  how  you  appreciate  her  and  how  kind 
you  are  to  her.  Every  letter  she's  written  has  been 
full  of  the  things  you've  done  for  her.  Oh,  she  takes 
it  all  in,  every  bit  of  it.  Nothing's  ever  lost  on  her. 
Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  planned  to  get  here  day  after 
tomorrow.  They're  expecting  me  then.  They  don't 
know  I'm  here,  but  things  broke  so  I  could  get  away 
two  days  ahead  of  time.  So  I  says  to  myself, 
4  What's  the  use  of  waiting?  I  might  just  as  well  be 
down  there  visiting  with  Dolly  as  cooling  my  heels 
up  here  in  Saugus;'  for  I'm  the  kind,  as  soon  as  I 
get  it  into  my  head  to  do  a  thing,  I  want  to  do  it.  But 
apparently  they've  gone  off  somewhere — not  expect- 
ing me,  of  course.  I  thought  you  ladies  might  know 
where  she  was." 

"  Take  this  chair,  Mr.  Davis,"  Phoebe  said,  push- 
ing a  big,  cushioned  wicker  chair  towards  him.  "  I 
think  you'll  find  it  comfortable.  I  don't  happen  to 
know  where  Mrs.  Day  is,  but  she's  likely  to  be  back 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET    205 
any  moment,  and  you  must  wait  with  us  until  she 


comes." 


"  This  is  a  comfortable  chair,"  Mr.  Davis  com- 
mented, as  he  sank  into  its  capacious  arms.  "  I'd 
know  there  was  a  man  in  this  house.  There's  sure 
to  be  comfortable  chairs  where  the  menfolks  are. 
I've  allus  noticed  that."  He  smiled  about  the  circle. 
11  Now,  ain't  this  a  cozy  little  place  for  you  ladies  to 
sit  and  sew !  "  His  eyes  went  from  the  pair  of  Glou- 
cester hammocks,  carefully  upholstered  in  brilliant 
chintzes  and  piled  with  cushions  in  extravagant  futur- 
istic colors,  to  the  little  tables  which  bore  sewing- 
bags,  sewing-materials,  sewing-tools,  to  the  fire 
crackling  and  sparkling  in  the  wide  fireplace,  to  the 
big  jars  in  a  green  Chinese  glaze  full  of  ardent 
autumn  branches.  '  You're  as  snug  as  a  bug  in  a  rug 
out  here,  aren't  you?  You  don't  any  of  you  know 
where  Dolly  is?" 

Mrs.  Brodbeck  spoke  first;  her  smile,  extraordi- 
narily youthful,  making  havoc  of  the  middle-aged 
contours  of  her  face.  "  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  Mrs. 
Day  didn't  happen  to  mention  to  me  where  she  was 
going." 

"Nor  to  me,  either,"  Sylvia  added.  She,  too; 
smiled — the  gentle,  light-filled  smile  that  flashed 
arrow-like  across  her  face  and  then  vanished  in  a  set- 
tled seriousness.  "  She's  probably  gone  only  for  the 
day." 


ao6  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  She'll  feel  very  badly  to  know  that  you  arrived 
during  her  absence,"  Mrs.  Meredith  took  it  up.  She 
unloosed  all  her  dimples  on  Mr.  Davis,  who  met 
them  with  a  gallant  display  of  twinkles. 

"  However,  you  must  stay  with  us  until  she  gets 
home,"  declared  Phoebe.  "  Oh,  thank  goodness, 
here  comes  something  to  eat.  I  hope  you  like  tea, 
Mr.  Davis.  Over  here,  Annie." 

;'  Well,  if  there's  anything  that  will  go  to  the  right 
spot  this  moment,"  remarked  Mr.  Davis,  "  it's  a  cup 
of  tea.  It  was  an  awful  hot,  dusty  ride  from  Saugus, 
and  I  guess  I'm  just  like  an  old  woman — I  do  like 
tea.  That's  a  smart  little  contraption."  He 
referred  to  the  green-tinted,  wicker  tea-wagon  that 
Annie  was  wheeling  across  the  broad  piazza.  She 
stopped  in  front  of  Phoebe,  adjusted  it  to  a  conve- 
nient nearness,  removed  the  tea-cozy  of  a  brilliant 
Chinese  embroidered  silk  from  the  teapot  of  Canton 
medallion.  Mr.  Davis  leaned  forward  and  surveyed 
the  arrangement  with  a  pleased  and  child-like  inter- 
est. "  Upper  deck  covered  with  cups  and  saucers  and 
teapot  and  lower  deck  with  sandwiches,  cake  and 
cheese.  Now,  ain't  that  handy?  " 

"  Yes,"  Phoebe  agreed.  "  It  certainly  is  handy. 
We  use  this  tea-wagon  for  everything.  We've  worn 
out  two  of  them.  The  maids  take  dishes  on  it  from 
dining-room  to  kitchen,  the  children  take  their  toys 
in  and  out  on  it,  I  take  things  from  the  house  to  the 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET    207 

piazza  and  back  on  it.  In  fact,  I  think  on  a  pinch  we 
could  move  with  it.  Oh,  Mr.  Davis,  I  forgot  that 
you  don't  know  our  names.  Let  me  introduce  you  to 
these  ladies:  Mrs.  Brodbeck,  Mrs.  Fall,  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith, my  mother,  Mrs.  Martin,  and  my  sister,  Mrs. 
Ernest  Martin." 

"  Oh,  those  names  are  all  as  familiar  to  me,"  Mr. 
Davis  said,  bowing  to  each,  "  as  though  you  were 
my  neighbors  in  Saugus.  Every  letter  Dolly  writes 
me  is  full  of  you  and  what  you've  been  doing.  She 
says  she  was  never  in  such  a  kind  neighborhood. 
Some  folks  aren't  neighborly  at  all,  you  know.  It 
isn't  any  fun  to  live  in  a  place  where  people  don't 
take  you  right  in  and  treat  you  like  themselves.  And 
Dolly's  the  kind  that's  always  had  a  lot  of  notice 
taken  of  her.  Up  in  Saugus  they  think  everything  of 
her.  She's  smart  as  a  trap,  bright  as  a  dollar,  and 
quick  as  a  cat.  Neat  as  wax  too!  Does  anything 
with  a  needle  that  any  other  woman  can.  And  cook! 
Maybe  I'd  do  better  to  let  other  folks  say  this,  but 
then  I've  got  a  great  comeback  when  anybody  joshes 
me  about  praising  Dolly.  I  always  say,  *  I  don't 
know  who's  to  know  any  better  than  I  do  what  a 
smart  girl  she  is.'  ' 

There  came  an  awkward  pause.  Phoebe  busied 
herself  with  the  tea-things,  making  no  attempt  to 
break  it.  Mrs.  Fall  cast  down  her  eyes  in  a  similar 
embarrassment.  Mrs.  Brodbeck  wet  her  lips  and 


208  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

palpably  made  an  effort  to  speak.  As  palpably  she 
failed.  Mrs.  Meredith  drew  in  her  breath  quickly 
and  then  let  it  out  quickly,  as  though  it  would  bear  a 
rush  of  words,  but  she  failed,  too.  Sylvia  stared 
helplessly. 

Mrs.  Martin  spoke.  "  Yes,  we  often  say  among 
ourselves,"  she  remarked  evenly,  "  what  a  remark- 
able housewife  your  daughter  is." 

The  little  stiff  silence  which  followed  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin's remark  might  have  prolonged  itself  to  embar- 
rassment. But  again  interruption  helped.  Two  girls, 
somewhere  in  their  middle  teens,  came  sauntering 
onto  the  piazza,  arm-in-arm. 

"  Oh,  mother!"  said  one  of  them.  And  then, 
"  Good  afternoon,  everybody !  Mother,  could  I 
show  Cely  your  new  pink  evening  gown  and  the  even- 
ing coat  and  the  slippers  and  everything?  " 

"  Good  afternoon,  Cely !  "  Phoebe  responded. 
"  Yes " 

"  And  could  I  show  her  what's  in  your  jewelry 
box ," 

"  The  Warburton  diamonds !  "  Phoebe  said  in 
amused  explanation  to  the  Sewing-Club.  "  Yes,  Ber- 
tha-Elizabeth. Only  promise " 

"  I  promise  you,  mother,  that  I'll  put  everything 
back  where  I  find  it." 

Bertha-Elizabeth  was  slender,  almost  thin.  But 
now,  her  big  lucid  eyes  were  not  too  big  for  the  deli- 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET    209 

cate  angularity  of  her  face.  And  she  showed  a  color 
that  threatened  to  become  brilliant.  Cely  Connors, 
round  and  strong-looking,  with  great  Erin-colored 
eyes  shining  from  under  the  smoky  mass  of  her  Erin- 
colored  hair,  seemed  no  longer  essentially  stronger. 

Cely's  eyes  went  with  smiling  composure  from 
face  to  face  as  she  bowed  to  the  members  of  the 
Sewing-Club.  But  Bertha-Elizabeth's  gaze,  so  direct 
and  earnest  that  it  was  almost  poignant,  caught  on 
Mr.  Davis'  look,  stayed  there.  The  old  man  and 
the  young  girl  surveyed  each  other.  In  one  of  those 
sudden  soul-comprehensions,  common  only  to  youth 
and  age,  they  took  each  other's  measure;  smiled  in 
immediate  and  radiant  friendship. 

"  That's  a  sweet  little  girl  of  yours,"  Mr.  Davis 
said,  as  Bertha-Elizabeth  disappeared.  "  Something 
about  her  face — not  jest  pretty — but  something  bet- 
ter." 

"  I  always  say  that  Bertha-Elizabeth  looks  like  an 
angel  on  a  diet,"  Mrs.  Brodbeck  laughed. 

Mr.  Davis  went  back  in  the  conversation  to  that 
point  where  the  two  girls  had  interrupted,  as  though 
with  deliberate  courtesy:  "Thank  you  for  giving 
me  all  those  compliments  about  Dolly.  Dolly  says 
you're  all  as  smart  as  a  whip,  too."  Mr.  Davis 
laughed  his  chuckling  little  laugh ;  and  again  the  con- 
centric wrinkles  about  his  old  eyes  passed  the  kindly 
twinkle  on  to  his  old  lips.  "  Many's  the  time  Fve 


210  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

smacked  my  lips  over  her  letters,  telling  me  of  the 
good  things  she's  had  to  eat  at  your  houses.  Those 
little  Sunday-night  suppers  and  those  picnics  in  the 
woods !  Well,  if  you  will  believe  it,  sometimes  after 
reading  her  letters  I've  had  to  go  out  into  the  pantry 
and  get  a  piece  of  pie  or  a  chunk  of  cheese,  or  some- 
thing." 

He  interrupted  himself  here  to  take  the  cup  of  tea 
which  Phoebe  handed  him.  "  Will  you  have  sugar 
or  cream,  or  both?  "  Phoebe  asked. 

"  Both,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  said.  He  poured 
a  supply,  conscientiously  meager,  of  cream  into  his 
cup.  "  That's  good-looking  cream !  "  he  commented 
with  an  air  of  authority.  He  picked  up  the  sugar 
tongs  and  made  an  ineffectual  effort  to  capture  a  cube 
of  sugar.  He  abandoned  that  after  an  instant  and 
with  a  "  Fingers  were  made  before  forks,"  conveyed 
two  lumps  with  his  fingers.  But  he  took  great  pains 
not  to  touch  adjacent  lumps.  He  stirred  the  mixture 
vigorously;  then  tasted  it.  "  Lord,  that  goes  to  the 
right  spot!  "  he  commented.  "  Nothing  like  a  taste 
of  tea  to  set  you  up." 

For  an  instant  in  the  flurry  of  tea-serving,  and 
while  sandwiches  and  cakes  and  cheese  were  making 
the  rounds,  general  conversation  died.  Mr.  Davis 
continued  to  drop  his  cheerful  comments,  however. 

"  This  is  a  mighty  pretty  neighborhood,"  he  said 
once  between  his  long  sips.  "  Lots  of  air  and  sky 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET     211 

and  space.  I'm  glad  Dolly  moved  where  it  isn't  so 
crowded.  She  was  used  to  plenty  of  space  up  in 
Saugus.  That's  a  tidy  little  hill  you've  got  back 
there,"  he  added  later.  "  Mt.  Fairview  you  call  it. 
Just  a  few  feet  more  and  it  would  have  been  a  regu- 
lar mountain.  I'd  like  to  go  up  to  the  top  some  day. 
I'll  bet  there's  a  pretty  view  there.  And  the  marshes 
out  yonder  are  handsome  at  this  time  of  the  year, 
now  ain't  they?  I  like  the  Fall.  I  didn't  useter  like 
it  so  much  when  I  was  young,  but  now  when  the 
leaves  come  flying  down,  it  makes  me  feel  good- — I 
don't  know  why.  I  watched  you  ladies  for  quite 
some  time  before  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  come  over 
here.  You  looked  as  though  you  were  having  such 
a  good  powwow,  I  hated  to  butt  in.  I  says  to  myself, 
1 1  know  them  ladies  are  talking  over  everybody  and 
everything,  as  ladies  always  do  when  they're  alone, 
and  when  a  man  interrupts,  it  ruins  it  all.'  When  my 
wife  was  alive,  the  Saugus  Ladies'  Aid  used  to  meet 
at  our  house.  Almost  always  I'd  go  away  for  the 
day,  but  sometimes  I'd  be  home — I'm  a  dentist  by 
profession  and  my  office's  in  the  house — and,  my 
land,  such  a  chatter!  I  couldn't  hear  myself  think, 
let  alone  talk.  Sometimes  I  useter  suspect  that  they 
didn't  hear  each  other  speak — only  themselves. 

Why,     once     I     remember What     is     it, 

ma'am?  " 

He  addressed  himself  to  Mrs.  Brodbeck,    Over 


212  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

that  lady's  broad,  kindly  maternal  face  had  come  a 
change  of  expression.  Her  color  rose  and  her  eye- 
lashes fluttered. 

'  There's  Mrs.  Day  now,"  she  said.  "  Your 
daughter's  come  home,  Mr.  Davis." 

Mr.  Davis  jerked  his  chair  about  with  a  sudden 
energy.  He  jumped  to  his  feet.  "  Dolly!  Dolly!  " 
he  called.  "  Look  who's  here !  " 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  woman  who  had 
come  slowly  up  the  street  and  turned  slowly  into  the 
yard  of  the  house  across  the  way,  wheeled  swiftly 
around.  All  that  was  flesh  about  her  petrified.  The 
small  rectangular  silver  purse  which  she  carried  at 
the  end  of  a  chain,  oscillated  a  moment,  then  it  too 
came  to  heavy  rest.  She  was  a  little  blonde  woman, 
nc  young,  but  youngish;  not  pretty,  but  prettyish; 
dressed  in  black  and  white,  inconspicuously,  but  with 
a  crisp  daintiness.  As  she  stared  at  the  picture  on  the 
Warburton  piazza,  the  little  figure  waving  its  broad- 
brimmed  felt  hat  in  the  midst  of  the  six  women,  the 
color  gradually  drifted  out  of  her  face.  Her  eyes 
lost  light,  lost  expression,  darkened;  turned  to  mere 
rounds  of  jelly.  Her  mouth  dropped  open. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I've  surprised  you,  all  right,"  her 
father  called  genially.  u  You'll  have  to  come  over 
here  and  get  me,  Dolly.  I'm  having  such  a  good 
time  that  maybe  I'll  make  my  visit  with  Mrs.  War- 
burton." 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET    213 

"  Do,  Mrs.  Day,"  Phoebe  urged  civilly,  "  come 
and  have  a  cup  of  tea  with  us.'1 

Mrs.  Day  came  back  to  animation,  but  only  to  fall 
into  a  very  panic  of  irresolution.  She  shrank  back. 
She  started  forward.  She  stood  still,  clasping  and 
unclasping  her  hands.  But  all* the  time,  her  big 
eyes  stayed  glazed  dull  spots  in  her  white  face,  and 
all  the  time  her  mouth  kept  its  stricken  look  of  terror. 
Apparently,  some  power  within — apart  from  her  will 
— set  her  going;  finally  drove  her  onward.  She 
crossed  the  street  at  a  pace  that  grew  from  a  par- 
alyzed slowness  to  panic-stricken  hurry. 

Her  father  ran  to  meet  her.  His  arms  went  about 
her  waist.  Her  arms  went  about  his  neck.  They 
kissed,  not  once,  but  many  times.  Mrs.  Day's  head 
dropped  for  an  instant  to  his  shoulder.  Her  eyes 
closed.  He  patted  her  gently.  But  now  her  fear 
and  weakness  were  evaporating  rapidly.  "  Come 
right  home,  father,"  she  ordered  in  a  faint  voice. 
"This  instant!  I'm  sorry  I  was  away.  You 
must  be  tired  to  death — and  hungry — and  dusty — 
and — and — and  hungry — and  tired  to  death — and 

dusty "  She  kept  repeating  herself,  as  one 

who  is  thinking  of  things  other  than  those  she  is 
saying. 

'  You  must  drink  this  cup  of  tea  first,  Mrs.  Day," 
Phoebe  interposed  decisively.  "  It  will  make  you 
feel  better." 


214  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

As  in  a  daze,  Mrs.  Day  took  the  cup  that  Phoebe 
extended  to  her.  She  drank,  but  it  was  only  with  a 
determined  effort.  At  the  first  taste,  however,  as 
though  at  the  demand  of  some  fierce  physical  need, 
she  swallowed  it  in  a  single  draught.  She  handed  the 
empty  cup  back  to  Phoebe.  "  Thank  you,  Mrs.  War- 
burton." 

"  I've  been  telling  these  ladies,"  her  father  said 
jovially,  "  that  I  knew  all  about  them  before  ever  I 
met  them.  Just  think  of  it !  "  He  turned  to  the 
sextette  of  silent  listeners.  "  Five  years  this  little 
girPs  been  living  down  here,  and  never  once  has  she 
missed  writing  her  Daddy  a  long  letter  Sunday 
night."  He  turned  back  to  his  daughter,  threw  his 
arms  about  her.  "  And  I've  told  them  how  you've 
written  all  about  them  and  their  kindness  to  you 
and  I've  told  them  how  grateful  I  am  to  them  for  it 
and  I've  told  them  that's  how  I  know  what  good 
wives  and  mothers — and  cooks  too — they  all  are." 

His  daughter  did  not  speak,  but  her  little  hand 
clutched  his  arm  and  her  eyes,  mutely  imploring, 
went  from  one  face  to  the  other  until  they  had  made 
the  round  of  the  six  women.  There  was  an  interval 
of  dead  silence  through  which  a  passing  motorcycle 
dragged  a  jarring  chain  of  sound. 

Phoebe  spoke  first.  She  addressed  herself  to  Mr. 
Davis.  "  It's  very  nice  of  you  to  say  all  those  pleas- 
ant things  and  we're  all  so  glad  you're  here.  You 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET    215 

said  you'd  like  to  see  the  view  from  Mt.  Fairview. 
My  husband  and  my  two  oldest  sons  are  going  for 
a  tramp  up  the  mountain  Sunday.  Wouldn't  you  like 
to  go  with  them,  Mr.  Davis?  "  She  turned  to  Mrs. 
Day.  "  That  is  if  your  daughter  hasn't  any  other 
plans  for  you." 

"  No — I  haven't — I  haven't  thought — if  father 
would  care — why — what  would  you  like  to  do, 
father?  "  Mrs.  Day  faltered. 

"  I  would  like  to  go  first-rate,"  Mr.  Davis 
declared. 

"  All  right."  Phoebe's  manner  was  now  quite 
offhand.  "  They'll  start  somewhere  in  the  middle 
of  the  morning,  and  stay  all  day.  I'll  put  up  a  lunch 
for  you  all.  Mr.  Warburton  wants  to  show  Edward 
— that's  our  second  boy — where  he  used  to  play 
when  he  was  a  child.  I  think  you'll  enjoy  it,  Mr. 
Davis.  The  view  is  really  very  pretty  from  the  top. 
You  can  see  Boston  in  the  distance  if  it's  a  clear  day; 
and  sometimes  the  sunlight  flashes  on  the  golden 
dome  of  the  State  House.  I  hate  to  take  your  father 
away  from  you,  Mrs.  Day,  but  Mr.  Warburton  will 
enjoy  Rim." 

'*  Thank  you  very  much,  Mrs.  Warburton,"  Mrs. 
Day  breathed.  "  Now,  father,  we  must  go  home." 

She  turned  swiftly,  her  little  white  hand  still  clutch- 
ing convulsively  her  father's  bigger,  browner  one. 
Half-way  down  the  length  of  the  piazza,  she  turned. 


216  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

44  Thank  you — thank  you  all — very  much — for  tak- 
ing care  of  father  like  this."  Her  voice  died  in  a 
husky  murmur. 

The  six  women  sat  stock-still  and  watched  them 
cross  the  road. 

After  dinner  that  night,  Phoebe  was  called  to  the 
telephone.  It  was  Mrs.  Meredith.  "  Goodness, 
Phoebe !  "  she  plunged  without  preliminary  into  an 
excited  harangue,  "  you  have  no  idea  how  that  scene 
this  afternoon  has  haunted  me.  Wasn't  it  terrible? 
That  Mr.  Davis  was  such  an  old  darling!  Don't 
you  just  love  him?  " 

"I  thought  he  was  a  perfect  duck!"  Phoebe  an- 
swered. 

"  When  I  think,"  Mrs.  Meredith  poured  on, 
"  that  he  might  have  gathered  from  the  way  we 
acted — or  we  might  have  said  something  that  would 
accidentally  have  given  the  whole  thing  away,  I 
could  cry  my  eyes  out.  And  I  really  felt  for  Mrs. 
Day.  Did  you  ever  see  a  woman  with  such  a  case  of 
the  rattles?" 

"  I  never  saw  anybody  turn  such  a  color?*  de- 
clared Phoebe.  "  I  thought  she  was  going  to  faint." 

"  Of  course,  Elliott  is  away,"  continued  Mrs. 
Meredith,  "  but  my  brother  Henry  is  here  while 
Jane  is  at  the  hospital,  and  I  told  him  he  simply  had 
to  do  something  for  Mr.  Davi§.  At  first  he  was 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET    217 

bored  and  said  he  wouldn't,  but  when  I  explained  the 
situation  to  him  in  detail,  he  said  *  All  right/ 
Henry's  just  called  Mr.  Davis  up  and  asked  him 
if  he  would  go  to  Keith's  with  him  some  night  next 
week.  When  Henry  told  him  that  there  were  some 
trained  elephants  on  the  bill,  you  would  have  thought 
it  was  a  child  going  to  his  first  circus.  He  said,  *  I've 
always  heard  that  city  folks  were  so  cold,  but  now  I 
know  better.'  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  done  that,"  said 
Phoebe. 

"  Henry  said,"  Mrs.  Meredith  went  on,  and  now 
there  was  a  pause  in  the  flood  of  words;  she  spoke 
slowly,  "  he  didn't  see  why  we  don't  let  bygones  be 
bygones  and  invite  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Day  and  her  father 
to  the  house.  But  I  told  him  we  simply  couldn't  do 
that.  And  we  can't.  Can  we,  Phoebe?  " 

"  Of  course  we  can't,"  Phoebe  declared  indig- 
nantly. 

Later  that  evening,  Mrs.  Fall  called  Phoebe  up. 
"  Oh,  Phoebe  dear,"  she  began,  "  I've  been  in  the 
dumps  ever  since  this  afternoon,  thinking  of  Mrs. 
Day  and  her  father.  I  want  to  do  something — I 
don't  know  what.  Of  course  I  can't  do  anything 
about  her — I  mean  like  having  her  come  to  the  house 
or  that  sort  of  thing.  I've  got  three  little  girls, 
and  somehow — well,  it  may  sound  bromidic,  but  it 


218  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

certainly  is  up  to  us  women  to  maintain  the  sanctity 
of  the  home.  But  I  can't  get  her  out  of  my  mind. 
How  frightened  she  was  this  afternoon !  Of  course, 
she  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  either  we  had  given 
the  whole  thing  away  to  her  father  or  would  do  it 
before  she  got  him  off  the  piazza — just  as  though 
we  were  cats.  Well,  I've  been  telling  Billy  all  about 
it — really,  he  felt  just  as  cut  up  as  I  do.  You'd  be 
surprised  how  much  of  that  kind  of  feeling  there  is 
in  Billy.  He  immediately  tried  to  think  of  some- 
thing we  could  do  for  Mr.  Davis.  He's  taking  a 
long  automobile  trip  Monday.  There's  some  rich 
people  he  thinks  may  buy  the  Duncan  place,  but 
they  want  to  see  the  whole  neighborhood  first,  so 
he  called  up  Mr.  Davis  and  asked  him  if  he  wanted 
to  go  with  him.  My  dear,  he  was  tickled  to  death — 
just  like  a  child.  I  was  awfully  glad  Billy  did  that. 
I've  been  trying  to  think  how  we  could  get  around 
the  situation.  Of  course,  I  can't  do  anything  for 
Mrs.  Day,  for  if  there's  anything  we  women  must 
do,  it's  keep  up  the  moral  tone  of  a  community. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Phoebe?  "  Mrs.  Fall's  voice  had 
a  beseeching  note. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Phoebe  answered  decidedly.  "  I  do. 
Yes,  we  certainly  must  do  that.  Yes,  by  all  means 
yes."  Phoebe  put  a  growing  emphasis  on  each 
"  yes."  It  was  apparent  that  she  had  gone  over  this 
question  many  times  in  her  own  mind. 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET     219 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Brodbeck  called  Phoebe 
up.  "  Oh,  my  dear,"  she  began,  u  I  hardly  slept 
all  night  from  thinking  of  Mrs.  Day  and  her  father. 
Before  I  fell  asleep,  I  said  to  myself  that  I  ought  to 
do  something  for  her,  and  then  I  wondered  if  after 
all — you  know,  Phoebe,  I've  got  two  grown-up  sons 
and  I've  never  introduced  any  element  into  my  home 
that  wasn't  beautiful  and  ennobling.  But  I  kept 
waking  up  in  the  night  thinking  of  those  two — how 
white  she  got  and  how  she  clung  to  him  and  his 
pride  in  her  and  his  perfect  faith  that  we  were  all 
crazy  about  her.  Tom  didn't  get  home  until  nearly 
three — a  directors'  meeting — of  course  I  didn't 
trouble  him  then,  but  I  told  him  this  morning  that 
I  wanted  him  to  do  something  that  would  show  Mr. 
Davis  that  we  really  were  neighborly  and  yet  would 
not  involve  me  with  Mrs.  Day  in  any  way.  Well, 
you  know  what  Tom  is  like.  First  he  said  he  was 
too  busy  and  wasn't  interested  and  couldn't  be  both- 
ered to  do  anything.  That's  the  way  he  always  acts 
when  I  put  anything  unexpectedly  to  him.  But  he's 
just  called  me  up  from  the  office  to  say  that  he  tele- 
phoned Mr.  Davis  at  Mrs.  Day's  and  asked  him  to 
go  to  one  of  the  World's  Series  games  with  him 
Saturday  afternoon." 

1  That's  so  like  Tom,"  Phoebe  commented. 

"  Isn't  it?"  his  wife  agreed.  "  I  know  just  ex- 
actly how  it  affected  him.  It  got  on  his  conscience 


220  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

and  bothered  him  until  he  had  to  do  something  about 
it.  Tom  said  Mr.  Davis  went  perfectly  crazy  over 
the  idea  of  going  to  a  big  game — says  he's  always 
been  wild  to  see  Ty  Cobb.  Says  he  won't  sleep  or 
eat  until  Saturday  comes.  Tom  says  he  likes  him 
just  from  his  voice  over  the  telephone." 

"  Well,  he  certainly  is  a  darling,"  agreed 
Phoebe. 

"  As  for .  Mrs.  Day — why  do  women  do  such 
things,  Phoebe?  "  Mrs.  Brodbeck  asked  earnestly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  answered  Phoebe.  "  I  don't 
know"  The  stress  she  put  on  the  word  "  know " 
held  a  note  of  irritability. 

"  I  do  wish  that  we  could "  Mrs.  Brodbeck 

broke  off  wistfully.  "  But  we  can't,  can  we, 
Phoebe?" 

"  No,"  Phoebe  said  stormily.    "  We  can't." 

"  Tug,"  Phoebe  said  to  her  husband  that  night  at 
dinner,  "  every  one  of  the  women  who  was  here 
yesterday  has  called  me  up  to  tell  me  that  she's  going 
to  do  something  for  Mr.  Davis — I  mean  every  one 
except  mother.  Nothing  has  ever  illustrated  more 
perfectly  to  me  the  difference  between  her  genera- 
tion and  ours.  Mother  wouldn't  ever  think  of  doing 
such  a  thing.  Women  are  certainly  growing  more 
fine  in  their  attitude  towards  each  other  every  day. 
Of  course,  we  can't  do  anything  for  Mrs.  Day " 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET     221 

Across  the  table  Phoebe's  eyes  raked  her  husband's 
face  pleadingly. 

"  I  don't  see  why  not,"  Tug  declared. 

11  We  can't,  Tug,  that's  all  there  is  to  it,"  Phoebe 
insisted.  "  We  just  can't.  Still  it's  encouraging  that 
there's  an  impulse " 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  why  not,"  Tug  repeated  in  a 
tone  of  sheer  bafflement.  "  And  I  must  say,  I  see 

nothing  encouraging It's  absolutely  immoral 

in  my  opinion  to  take  out  a  fine  impulse  in  talk.  But 
then  I  won't  butt  in.  It's  a  woman's  question. 
YouVe  got  to  settle  it  yourselves." 

"  Mr.  Davis  went  back  to  Saugus  last  night," 
Mrs.  Meredith  remarked  at  the  next  meeting  of  the 
Sewing-Club  after  the  laughter  of  greetings  had  died 
down.  "  He  stayed  three  days  over  his  week.  El- 
liott teased  him  to  go  fishing  with  him  Tuesday,  and 
he  finally  consented.  I  called  him  up  yesterday  after- 
noon to  say  good-by.  I'm  glad  for  his  sake  that  this; 
good  weather  kept  up." 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Fall  took  it  up,  "I  think  it's 
warmer  than  it  was  two  weeks  ago  when  we  were 
here.  Really,  Phoebe,  we  hardly  need  a  fire  today. 
Fred  said  that  Mr.  Davis  had  the  most  interesting 
line  of  talk  that  he  ever  listened  to  from  a  hayseed. 
Mr.  Davis  has  planned  it  all  out  for  Fred  to  come 


222  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

up  there  for  a  week  next  summer,  and  Fred  says 
he's  going." 

"  Tom  says  it  was  the  greatest  fun  taking  him  to 
the  ball  game,"  Mrs.  Brodbeck  added.  "  He  said 
Mr.  Davis  was  the  most  amusing  fan  he  ever  saw. 
Enjoyed  it  just  like  a  child,  and  when  Ty  Cobb  made 
that  phenomenal  run  in  the  last  inning,  well,  Tom 
said  he  had  to  hold  him  in  his  seat." 

The  talk  drifted  to  other  subjects. 

"  I  would  like  to  know  how  Mrs.  Day  feels  about 
all  this?"  Phoebe  suddenly  turned  it  back  again, 
without  reference  to  the  rest  of  the  conversation. 

"  I  would,  too,"  agreed  Mrs.  Fall. 

"  She  probably  doesn't  know  what  to  think,"  Mrs. 
Meredith  suggested. 

"  I  passed  her  on  the  street  the  other  day,"  said 
Mrs.  Brodbeck.  "  She  looked  away  the  instant  she 
saw  me,  so  as  not  to  give  me  the  chance  to  cut  her, 
but  I  called  out  *  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Day.  Isn't 
it  wonderful  weather? ' 

"  What  did  she  say?  "  Mrs.  Meredith  demanded 
breathlessly. 

"  Oh,  nothing  epoch-making,"  Mrs.  Brodbeck 
laughed.  "  Just  something  civil." 

"  I  bet  she's  a  very  grateful  woman,"  Phoebe  sug- 
gested. "  Don't  you,  mother?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Mrs.  Martin  slowly. 
"  I  don't  know  what  she's  to  be  grateful  about — un- 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET    223 

less  you  expect  her  to  be  grateful  to  a  crowd  of 
women  just  for  not  acting  like  a  pack  of  wolves." 

A  moment  of  dead  silence  fell.  "  Well,  mother, 
if  you  think "  Phoebe  was  beginning. 

"  There's  Mrs.  Day  now,"  Mrs.  Fall  murmured 
under  her  breath.  "  She's  just  come  out  of  her 
house — she's  crossing  the  street — I  think  she's  com- 
ing here,  Phoebe." 

Mrs.  Day  was  coming  to  the  Warburton  house. 
She  turned  in  at  the  gate  and  moved  quietly  up  the 
path  towards  the  piazza.  She  bore — it  engaged  both 
her  small  hands — a  big,  blue  platter,  on  which,  cov- 
ering something  mound-like  in  shape,  glistened  a 
square  of  damask.  Phoebe  arose  with  a  "  How  do 
you  do,  Mrs.  Day?" 

"  Mrs.  Warburton,"  Mrs.  Day  answered  without 
formal  greeting,  "  this  was  baking  day  with  me 
and — I — thought  you  might  like  some  of  my  angel- 
cake — with — your  tea.  I — -don't  always  have  good 
luck  with  it — but — this  has  turned  out  very  well." 
Her  flustered  speech  came  to  an  end. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  very  much,"  Phoebe  said.  She 
took  the  platter  from  Mrs.  Day  and  placed  it  on  the 
tea-table;  removed  the  napkin.  "  Oh,  that  looks  per- 
fectly delicious — light  as  a  feather.  Di(J  you  ever 
see  such  cake,  girls?  " 

The  sewing-circle  ejaculated  admiring  superla- 
tives. 


224  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Mrs.  Day  stood  still,  her  eyes  down.  The  pause 
lengthened.  When  the  murmurs  died,  she  tried 
to  speak,  but  at  first  words  would  not  come. 
"  And  I  would  like  to  say,"  she  began  finally,  "  that 
I  appreciate  all  that  you  did  for  my  father  while  he 
was  here — every  bit  of  it.  My  husband  does,  too, 

and  if  there  is  anything  I  can  ever  do "  Her 

voice,  which  had  started  thin  and  faltering,  deepened 
suddenly  on  the  word  "  do  "  and  seemed  to  gain  body 
and  volume;  her  eyelids  came  up  and  her  glance 
went,  earnest  and  unembarrassed,  from  face  to  face. 
— "  to  repay  you,  I  hope  you  will  let  me.  I  can't 
think  of  anything  now — except  that  I'm  a  good  nurse 
and  sometime  in  case  of  sickness,  especially  in  an 
emergency,  you  might  like  to  know  of  somebody 
upon  whom  you  could  depend.  I'll  give  up  anything 
I'm  doing  or  any  engagement  I  have  to  help  any  one 
of  you.  I  was  dreading  my  father's  visit — awfully 
— you  don't  know  how  much.  I  put  it  off  as  long  as 
I  could.  I  had  a  whole  lot  of  lies  made  up  to  ex- 
plain why  nobody  came  to  see  us,  but  I  didn't  have 
to  tell  them.  He  never  guessed.  He  never  had 
such  a  good  time  in  all  his  life.  But  he  would  have 
thought  it  very  strange,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you. 
Oh,  you  don't  know  how  grateful  I  am." 

"  I'm  so  glad  your  father  enjoyed  his  visit,  Mrs. 
Day,"  Phoebe  said.  "  We  all  thought  him  a  per- 
fect darling,  and  now,"  she  added,  "  won't  you  and 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET     225 

Mr.  Day  come  to  dinner  with  Mr.  Warburton  and 
me  tomorrow  night — that  is  if  you  haven't  any  other 
engagement?  " 

"  No,  I  have  no  other  engagement."  Mrs.  Day 
said  this  in  a  dazed  way  after  a  little  interval  in 
which  dumbly  she  searched  Phoebe's  face.  "  We 
shall  be  very  glad  to  come,"  she  added  after  another 
dumb  interval  in  which  obviously  she  sought  for 
words.  She  started  to  leave. 

11  You  mustn't  go  now,  Mrs.  Day,"  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith stayed  her.  "  Not  at  least  before  you've  had 
some  tea.  It's  one  rule  of  the  club  that  anybody 
who  comes  in  on  a  meeting  must  eat  with  us."  She 
handed  Mrs.  Day  the  cup  of  tea  which  she  had 
hastily  poured.  "  Do  sit  down." 

Still  obviously  dazed,  Mrs.  Day  mechanically 
obeyed  her.  Phoebe  began  to  cut  the  angel-cake. 

'  The  next  meeting  of  this  Sewing-Club,"  Mrs. 
Brodbeck  went  on,  "  takes  place  at  my  house,  a  week 
from  today,  Mrs.  Day.  We've  been  meeting  with 
Mrs.  Warburton  all  this  month  because  she  has  the 
outdoor  fireplace,  but  next  week  it  will  be  too  cold  for 
that.  I  want  you  to  come,  Mrs.  Day — if  you 
haven't  any  other  engagement." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  Mrs.  Day.  Her  daze 
had  departed,  and  she  looked  steadily  at  Mrs.  Brod- 
beck. But  her  eyes  deepened  in  color,  as  the  tears 
filled  them. 


226  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Mrs.  Day,  would  you  go  in  town  with  me  to- 
morrow to  the  matinee  to  see  '  The  Tipperary 
Lad7?"  Mrs.  Fall  asked.  "They  say  it's  a 
scream  from  start  to  finish.  I  should  love  to 
have  you — that's  if  you  haven't  any  other  engage- 
ment." 

"  I'd  just  love  it,"  Mrs.  Day  admitted.  "  I  don't 
know  when  I've  been  to  the  theater."  She  turned 
her  look  directly  on  Mrs.  Fall.  Her  lips  did  not 
quiver,  but  the  tears  still  hung  thick  on  her  eyelashes. 

"  I  won't  invite  Mrs.  Day  just  yet  a  while,"  said 
Mrs.  Martin,  creating  a  diversion.  "  I  guess  she's 
had  enough  of  us  for  one  spell.  She  and  Mr.  Day 
and  Mr.  Davis  came  to  dinner  the  night  before  Mr. 
Davis  left,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  times  Ed- 
ward and  I  have  dropped  in  on  them  when  they 
didn't  expect  us." 

"  Oh,  Mother  Martin!  "  Phoebe  exclaimed,  glar- 
ing at  her  mother  with  an  expression  that  was  not 
all  mock  exasperation.  "  Think  of  your  entertain- 
ing Mrs.  Day  first !  You're  always  stealing  a  march 
on  me,  but  some  day  I'll  get  you.  You  watch  me." 

'  You'll  have  to  start  early  to  get  ahead  of  your 
mother,  Phoebe,"  Mrs.  Brodbeck  prophesied.  "  By 
the  way,  Mrs.  Day,  I  want  to  ask  you,  before  in- 
viting you  to  join  our  sewing-club  permanently,  if 
you  like  to  sew." 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Brodbeck,  I  do,"  Mrs.  Day  an- 


THE  WOMAN  ACROSS  THE  STREET    227 

swered.  Her  tears  seemed  to  be  flowing  backwards 
now;  her  cleared  eyes  met  Mrs.  Brodbeck's  with  a 
long  look  of  understanding.  "  I  like  to  sew,  and 
in  the  next  few  months  I  shall  have  quite  a  lot  of 
sewing  to  do — baby  clothes/'  she  explained  simply. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  VAMP 

"TSNT   Molly   coming  today?"    Phoebe   War- 

A    burton  asked  Sylvia. 

"  She  said  she  was,"  Sylvia  answered.  u  I  can't 
understand  what's  keeping  her.  It's  her  boast  that 
she's  never  late  to  the  Sewing-Club." 

"  Yes,  she  does  enjoy  it,"  Mrs.  Fall  remarked,. 
"  It  means  a  lot  to  her." 

"  It  means  a  lot  to  all  of  us,"  Mrs.  Day  said 
gently.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  would  do 
without  it.  It  has  grown  into  my  life  so." 

"  It  gives  you  something  to  look  forward  to.  I 
find  myself  thinking  of  it  all  the  week."  Sylvia 
spoke  a  little  absently.  She  had  an  occasional  eye 
for  the  lawn  and  a  constant  ear  for  the  kitchen.  On 
the  lawn,  her  two  little  daughters,  Elizabeth-Marian, 
a  delicate,  laughing  pale-blonde  child;  and  Sylvia, 
brown,  very  deep-eyed  and  serious,  were  playing 
dolls.  From  the  direction  of  the  kitchen,  a  door 
opening  frequently,  let  out  the  sound  of  cream  being 
whipped. 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  it  a  lot  lately — analyzing 
it,"  Phoebe  went  on.  "  I  think  that  one  reason  that 

228 


THE  VAMP  229 

we  enjoy  it  so  much  is  that  it's  a  comfortable  way 
of  growing  middle-aged  together." 

"Middle-aged!  Phoebe,  you  monster!"  Mrs. 
Brodbeck  charged. 

"  Yes,  middle-aged!"  Phoebe  stood  stanchly  by 
her  guns.  "  We've  reached  the  age,  every  one  of 
us,  when  we're  letting  down,  all  along  the  line.  We 
do  over  our  last  winter's  evening  clothes  and  our 
last  summer's  hats.  We  don't  get  massaged  or  mar- 
celled or  manicured.  Oh,  I  suppose  it's  bound  to 
be " 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Fall  decided,  "  it  can't  be  helped 
with  children  growing  up !  There's  so  much  to  buy 
for  them " 

"  Here's  Molly  now !  "  Sylvia  exclaimed.  "  Oh !  " 
This  "  oh  "  was  merely  recognition  of  Maggie,  who 
came  in  wheeling  the  tea-wagon.  Sylvia  busied  her- 
self with  the  cups. 

"  You're  fired!  "  "  You're  expelled!  "  "  Charges 
will  be  preferred!  "  came  in  chorus  as  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith entered  the  room. 

Mrs.  Meredith  did  not  smile.  She  slowly  drew 
the  worn  fur  piece  from  about  her  neck;  slowly  took 
off  her  hat  and  coat.  "  I've  been  long-distancing," 

"  Nothing  serious,  I  hope?  "  Mrs.  Brodbeck  que- 
ried. 

"  Of  course  it's  serious,"  Phoebe  declared.  "  Not 
one  of  her  dimples  is  on  the  job." 


230  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it's  serious  or  not,"  Mrs. 
Meredith  said  without  greeting  and  still  without 
smiling.  "  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  in  the  worst 
pickle  I  ever  was  in  or  not.  I  don't  know  whether 
I'm  a  malefactor  or  not.  I  feel  as  though  I  was 
going  to  start  a  terrible  epidemic  in  this  town.  I 
feel  as  though  I  was  one  of  those  human  disease- 
carriers  that  you  read  about  in  the  magazines." 

"  My  goodness,  Molly !  "  Phoebe  broke  in. 
"  What  are  you  talking  about?  " 

"  Listen!  "  Molly  answered.  And  even  now,  not 
one  of  the  dimples,  which  Phoebe  had  predicated, 
appeared  in  the  dusky  round  of  her  cheek.  '*  You 
remember  that  I  got  a  note  from  an  unknown  female 
about  ten  days  ago,  enclosing  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  an  old  friend  of  mine,  Alice  Robinson?  And 
perhaps  you  remember  that  the  unknown  female 
said  she  was  coming  to  Boston  and  that  I  invited  her 
to  spend  a  week  with  me."  Her  eyes,  traveling 
about  the  circle  of  faces,  apparently  culled  enough 
of  recollection,  for  she  went  on,  "  Well,  this  morning 
I  got  a  letter  from  Alice.  I'll  read  it.  It  shouts 
for  itself  in  large,  round,  emphatic  letters: 

1  DEAR  MOLLY  : 

In  a  few  days,  a  girl  from  this  town,  Sibyl  Storrow,  will 
present  to  you  a  letter  of  introduction,  which  I  have  just 
written  for  her.  She's  going  to  Boston  for  a  visit  and 
knowing  that  I  had  friends  there,  she  asked  me  for  letters. 


THE  VAMP  231 

I  was  very  glad  to  give  them  to  her  because  Sibyl  is  a  per- 
fectly dandy  girl.  And  yet,  I  thought  I  would  like  to  write 
an  extra  word  of  explanation — something,  as  you  will  readily 
see,  that  would  scarcely  go  into  a  letter  of  introduction. 
Somehow,  it  seems  only  fair  to  you  to  do  this.  I'm  not 
quite  sure  that  it's  fair  to  her;  but  in  thinking  it  over,  I 
have  concluded  that  I've  no  choice  in  the  matter.  Anyway, 
I'm  taking  the  chance.  So  here  goes! 

As  one  woman  to  another,  Sibyl  Storrow  is  absolutely  all 
right  in  every  respect  but  one.  She's  perfectly  honest  in 
money  matters;  keeps  her  engagement;  is  straight,  in  short, 
in  all  the  ways  in  which  we  like  a  woman  to  be  straight. 
But  nevertheless,  there's  one  out  about  her.  She's  a  flirt. 
She's  an  awful  flirt.  She's  the  worst  flirt  I've  ever  known 
in  all  my  life.  I  don't  think  she  means  any  real  harm. 
Sometimes  I  think  she  doesn't  realize  what  she's  doing.  She 
can't  help  it.  She  was  born  that  way.  But  she's  rather  ex- 
asperating to  other  women.  Everything  in  trousers  is  fish  to 
her  net — babies  in  the  cradle,  boys  in  prep-school,  college 
men,  middle-aged  business  men,  doddering  senile  wrecks — 
from  nine  to  ninety  she  goes  out  after  them  all.  And  gets 
them.  That's  the  worst  of  it — she  always  gets  them. 

There's  something  about  her What  it  is,  search  me. 

She  makes  me  think  of  a  song  I've  heard  somewhere: 

"  What  it  was  that  Mary  did,  Mary  didn't  know: 
But  everywhere  that  Mary  went,  the  men  were  sure  to 
go." 

She  isn't  very  pretty,  although  she  does  know  how  to  dress. 
But  she's  got  something  on  her  that  most  women  don't  have. 
She  can't  help  what  she  does.  She  attracts  men,  that's  all 
there  is  to  it.  And  so,  my  warning  is,  look  out  for  sons, 
brothers,  fathers,  husbands,  sweethearts.  She's  perfectly 


232  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

impartial.  As  I  said  before,  I  think  she's  harmless;  but 
fascinate  men  she  must  and  does. 

Now,  if  it  proves  that  I've  unloosed  a  human  scourge  on 
your  neighborhood,  please  forgive  me.  What  else  could  I 
do  when  she  asked  me  for  letters? 

Yours  with  love  but  in  great  perplexity, 

ALICE.' 

Now  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  Mrs.  Meredith 
demanded. 

All  her  dimples  were  playing  now.  She  was  a 
pretty  woman;  rounded  in  contour;  velvet  in  surface; 
duskily  dark.  She  paused  an  instant  to  look  into  the 
glass;  to  pull  down  a  rather  tumbled  waist;  and  to 
adjust  the  mussed  lace  at  her  neck.  There  was  a 
stir  in  the  room,  as  much  psychological  as  physical. 

Mrs.  Fall  and  Mrs.  Brodbeck  made  an  effort  to 
blank  their  expressions.  Mrs.  Day's  face  took  on 
an  unmitigated  seriousness.  Sylvia  alone  showed  no 
change.  She  went  on  serenely  pouring  tea.  But 
Phoebe  frankly  laughed.  "  It  sounds  to  me  as 
though  there  was  going  to  be  some  doings  in  this 
town,"  she  said. 

"  When  is  she  coming?  "  Mrs.  Brodbeck  asked. 

"  Tonight,"  Mrs.  Meredith  answered. 

"  I  wonder  what  she  looks  like."  Mrs.  Fall 
dropped  into  a  little  flat  interval  of  silence. 

"  I  haven't  the  remotest  idea,"  Mrs.  Meredith  an- 
swered. 


THE  VAMP  233 

u  Sibyl,"  Mrs.  Day  said  musingly.  "  It's  a  pretty 
name."  Her  china-blue  eyes  met  the  china-blue  eyes 
reflected  in  one  of  Sylvia's  long,  old-fashioned  mir- 
rors. They  seemed  to  take  reassuring  cognizance  of 
the  white-and-gold  prettiness  they  met  there. 

Phoebe  sighed  ostentatiously.  u  Well,  girls,  I 
expect  we'll  have  to  get  out  our  old  duds  and  do 
our  best  to  compete  with  this  whirlwind  among  men. 
Not  that  I  personally  think  I  have  any  chance.  But 
if  a  vicious  vamp  is  determined  to  tear  my  hus- 
band from  me,  I  suppose  I  won't  give  him  up  without 
a  struggle." 

"  Oh,  she'll  have  an  easy  enough  time  with  Tug," 
Mrs.  Fall  remarked.  "  Everybody  knows  how  hard 
Tug  is  straining  at  the  matrimonial  leash." 

"  Please  come  to  a  party  at  my  house  tomorrow 
evening,"  Mrs.  Meredith  begged.  "  Bring  your  hus- 
bands and  all  adjacent  males,  encumbered  or  unen- 
cumbered. And  let  the  slaughter  begin  as  soon  as 
possible.  Of  course  I'll  sacrifice  Elliott  on  the  altar 
of  hospitality  immediately.  By  the  time  you  arrive, 
she'll  probably  have  swallowed  him  whole.  But  un- 
less she  falls  in  a  state  of  torpor  in  order  to  masticate 
and  digest  him,  I  shall  expect  you  to  hand  over  your 
loved  ones  to  her,  one  at  a  time." 

1  Tug,"  Phoebe  commanded,  "  this  is  the  night 
you  are  to  put  on  your  glad  rags.    This  is  the  night 


234  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

we  are  to  meet  the  Circe  from  the  Middle  West.  Of 
course,  she  will  have  snatched  you  from  me  forever, 
before  we  get  home  this  evening;  so  I  will  now  take 
this  opportunity  to  bid  you  a  long  and  lingering  fare- 
well. You've  been  a  good  husband  to  me,  Tug,  and 
I  wish  I  could  have  kept  you.  But  with  a  younger 
and  more  beautiful  woman  in  the  game,  the  mere 
mother  of  your  children  must  expect  to  go  into  the 
discard." 

14  Well,  of  course,"  Tug  remarked,  "  the  easiest 
thing  I  do  is  to  fall  for  this  vampire  stuff.  All  my 
life  I  have  hoped  that  some  enchantress  like  this 
Helen  from  Troy  would  decide  to  enslave  me,  no 
matter  what  the  cost  to  herself  or  me.  In  farewell, 
I  will  say,  Phoebe,  that  you  have  been  a  good  wife 
and  a  very  satisfactory  mother  to  my  children.  I 
hope  that  your  life  isn't  ruined  and  that  some  day 
you  may  meet  another  man  who  will  make  you  really 
happy." 

u  That's  nice,  Tug,"  Phoebe  responded  with  the 
dancing  eyes  which  always  accompanied  the  long 
nonsensical  dialogues  that  were  her  delight  and 
Tug's.  "  Nobody  could  ever  fill  your  place.  I  will 
say  that  if  you  had  only  taken  my  advice,  you  would 
have  a  much  slimmer  figure  to  present  to  this 
charmer." 

"  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  about  my  figure, 
woman,"  Tug  remarked  with  much  heat,  '*  One 


THE  VAMP  235 

look  at  this  face,  featured  like  a  Greek  god,  and  it's 
all  off.  They  know  when  they  have  met  their  Water- 
loo. No  vamp  has  ever  yet  survived  the  experi- 


ence." 


After  which,  whistling  cheerfully,  Tug  went  up- 
stairs to  his  room.  At  the  sight  of  the  evening 
clothes  lying  on  the  bed,  his  whistling  changed  to 
groans.  But  without  further  ado,  he  slapped  some 
lather  onto  his  round  ruddy  face,  irregular-featured; 
bristling  as  to  mustache;  and  then  dutifully  climbed 
into  the  shining  raiment.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  you 
are  looking  pretty  brisk  this  evening  yourself,  Mrs. 
Warburton,"  he  said  to  his  wife  on  his  return  to  the 
living-room. 

"  Well,  of  course,  I  am  doing  my  feeble  best  to 
retain  the  father  of  my  children,"  Phoebe  explained 
meekly.  And  she  gave  a  sideways  glance  at  the  shin- 
ing lengths  of  tulle-hung  blue.  "  I  haven't  been 
able  to  make  up  my  mind  for  a  long  time  whether 
I  could  afford  a  new  evening  gown  or  not." 

"I'm  glad  you  decided  you  could,"  Tug  said 
heartily.  "  That  gown  is  a  bird.  You  look  great. 
I  like  you  in  evening  gowns.  I  wish  you'd  buy  a 
dozen." 

When  they  entered  Mrs.  Meredith's  charming  big 
living-room,  every  chair  seemed  to  hold  a  coruscat- 
ing specimen  of  womanhood.  The  couch,  however, 
a  big,  high-backed  affair,  was  surrounded  by  black- 


236  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

and-white  masculine  units.  It  was  not  until  Mrs. 
Meredith  said,  "  Miss  Storrow,  I  want  you  to 
meet n  that  its  contents  were  revealed. 

Then  there  disengaged  itself  from  the  black  velvet 
background,  a  slight  figure  in  white.  That  white 
was  lustrous-surfaced.  It  dropped  from  slim  shoul- 
der to  slimmer  ankle,  long  lines  that  seemed  a  pi- 
quant combination  of  the  mode  of  Greece  with  Paris. 
At  the  neck,  a  square  of  flesh  showed  a  slight  olive 
contrast  with  this  ivory  glimmer.  Miss  Storrow  was 
a  brunette,  although  she  was  pale;  and  her  eyes  were 
a  little  indeterminate  in  color  and  character.  Her 
hair,  however,  was  far  from  indeterminate  either 
in  color  or  character.  It  was  jet-black;  it  clung  so 
close  to  her  head  that  it  might  have  been  glued 
down;  it  invaded  her  forehead,  her  ears,  her  very 
cheeks  in  long  shining  loops,  equally  flat. 

She  acknowledged  the  introductions  with  a  little 
jerked  nod;  and  turning  immediately  to  a  nearby 
mirror,  proceeded  so  vigorously  to  apply  a  lip  stick 
that  her  mouth  seemed  to  turn  to  an  opening  poppy. 
It  echoed — that  opening  poppy — the  scarlet  of  long 
coral  earrings;  the  scarlet  of  tiny,  very  pointed, 
velvet  slippers;  the  scarlet  of  a  narrow  tasseled  bag 
— the  only  bits  of  color  in  her  costume. 

The  victrola  started  the  instant  Miss  Storrow  had 
performed  this  delicate  operation.  "  IVe  not  danced 
with  Mr.  Warburton  yet,"  she  said.  She  glided  in 


THE  VAMP  237 

Tug's  direction  and  that  frankly-astonished  gentle- 
man suddenly  found  himself  whirling  her  about  the 
room. 

Phoebe,  with  much-amused  gray  eyes,  watched 
their  progress.  "  I  take  off  my  hat  to  her,"  she  re- 
marked upder  her  breath,  seating  herself  beside  Mrs. 
Day.  "  I  never  saw  anything  so  quick  or  so  complete 
as  that.  Perhaps  you  can  beat  it.  I  can't." 

"  Oh,  you've  lost  most  of  it!  "  Mrs.  Day  said  re- 
gretfully. "  It's  been  wonderful.  Well,  will  you 
look  at  that?" 

Passing  Mr.  Day,  though  still  dancing  with  Tug, 
Miss  Storrow  had  reached  out  a  slim  hand;  had 
drawn  him  to  them.  They  danced  a  trio,  for  a 
while. 

"She's  a  wonder!"  Phoebe  commented.  "  Do 
you  know  I  envy  her !  I  don't  think  that  I've  ever 
flirted  in  my  life.  I'm  just  beginning  to  realize  what 
I've  missed." 

'  Well,  she  isn't  missing  much,"  Mrs.  Day  de- 
clared grimly. 

"  Doesn't  Molly  look  sweet  tonight?"  Phoebe 
went  on.  "  Look  at  her  gold  slippers !  " 

"  She  told  me,"  Mrs.  Day  said,  "  that  Elliott  ad- 
mired Miss  Storrow's  slippers  so  much  that  she  went 
in  to  Boston  yesterday  and  bought  three  pairs,  gold 
and  silver  and  bronze.  Hasn't  she  darling  feet?  " 

"  Oh,  they're  not  human!"  Phoebe  affirmed. 


238  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Will  you  look  at  that  Storrow  woman  now?  " 
Mrs.  Day  demanded,  in  a  tone  in  which  indignation 
wrestled  with  amusement. 

Somebody  had  kept  on  cranking  the  victrola,  so 
that  the  dance  had  been  unduly  prolonged.  Miss 
Storrow  had  kept  on  accumulating  partners,  until 
now  she  moved  in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  six;  a 
laughing  white-and-scarlet  accent  to  the  black  mass 
of  men. 

At  the  close  of  the  dance,  Phoebe  seated  herself 
beside  Miss  Storrow.  But  the  conversation  on  which 
she  embarked  was  so  broken  by  masculine  interrup- 
tion, and  by  Miss  Storrow's  own  interruptions,  that 
she  soon  abandoned  it.  In  fact,  the  evening  turned 
into  one  prolonged  ovation  to  Miss  Storrow.  She 
danced  without  cessation  until  the  modest  hour, 
shortly  after  midnight,  when  the  affair  broke  up. 
She  divided,  re-divided,  and  sub-divided  her  dances. 
This  was  really  unnecessary,  as  she  continued  her 
system  of  accumulating  partners.  She  introduced 
new  solo  steps;  even  group  improvements  of  various 
terpsichorean  kinds.  Sometimes  came  pauses  in  the 
music — notably,  a  long  one  in  which  supper  was 
served.  But  when  Miss  Storrow  was  not  dancing,  she 
was  tete-a-tete-ing  with  one  victim,  or  coquetting 
with  three  or  four.  She  was  sweetly  courteous  to 
the  women;  but  it  was  apparent  that  she  did  not  see 
them  when  she  looked  at  them ;  did  not  think  of  them 


THE  VAMP  239 

when  she  spoke  to  them;  only  half  heard  them  when 
they  replied  to  her. 

This  had  a  curious  but  inevitable  effect  on  the 
party.  Gradually  it  divided  into  sections;  one,  con-, 
sisting  of  Miss  Storrow,  the  men  who  crowded  about 
her,  the  younger  girls  who  subsisted  on  her  rejec- 
tions :  the  other,  made  up  of  the  married  women  who 
covertly  eyed  these  proceedings. 

"  Molly,  isn't  this  a  scream  ?"  Phoebe  said  once 
to  her  hostess.  "  My  sense  of  humor  hasn't  entirely 
deserted  me;  but  I'm  afraid  it's  wearing  a  little  thin." 

"  I've  concluded  that  I  never  had  one !  "  Mrs. 
Meredith  admitted. 

14 1  said  a  long  farewell  to  Tug  this  evening," 
Phoebe  went  on.  "  He's  been  very  fair.  He  says 
no  matter  what  happens,  he's  going  to  support  me 
and  the  children  the  rest  of  our  lives.  What  is  she 
like  to  live  with?  " 

"  My  dear !  "  Mrs.  Meredith  poured  out  a  torrent. 
1  You  ought  to  have  been  here.  I've  never  been  so 
ignored  in  my  own  house  in  all  my  life.  The  moment 
Elliott  comes  home  she  monopolizes  him  as  though 
they  had  just  become  engaged.  When  I  do  venture 
to  speak — which  is  very  rarely,  I  assure  you — she 
listens  to  me  with  such  a  ceremonious  look  of  interest 
that  I  wonder  why  I  started  to  say  anything." 

"  I  don't  know  what  her  plans  are,"  Phoebe  com-, 
mented.  "  The  only  place  that  I've  heard  of  where 


24o  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

they  permit  polyandry  is  in  Afghanistan.  When  I 
hear  of  Tug  buying  a  ticket  for  the  Orient,  I'll  con- 
sult a  lawyer  at  once.  Your  slippers  are  lovely, 
Molly." 

"  The  vamp  has  flashed  a  different  pair  every 
night.  And  Elliott  just  made  me  go  in  town  and  buy 
some.  He  said  he  knew  my  feet  were  smaller  than 
•hers.  They  are,  too!"  Mrs.  Meredith's  eyes 
danced  with  triumph. 

But  that  evening  at  the  Merediths'  was  only  a  deli- 
cate foreshadowing  of  what  was  to  happen.  Phoe- 
be's house,  which,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  every- 
body admitted  to  be  the  social  center  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, became  a  sort  of  telephone  exchange  on  what 
was  going  on. 

"  What  do  you  think  that  Storrow  female  has  just 
done?"  Mrs.  Brodbeck  demanded  vehemently  over 
the  wire  a  day  or  two  later.  "  Tom  has  just  called 
me  up  from  the  office  for  no  other  reason  apparently 
but  to  tell  me  she  has  just  telephoned  him  from  some- 
where in  Boston,  where  she  is  lost.  She  was  so  fright- 
ened— poor,  helpless,  shrinking  little  thing! — that 
there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  go  for  her  in  a 
taxi.  Why  didn't  she  call  up  Elliott  Meredith  ?  He's 
her  host.  Oh  yes,  I  remember,  she  did  tell  him  that 
she  looked  up  all  their  addresses  and  found  Tom's 
was  the  nearest.  Of  course  Tom  had  to  invite  her  to 
luncheon.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  a  proceeding?  " 


THE  VAMP  241 

"  No,  I  never  did!  "  Phoebe  answered  with  convic- 
tion. "  However,  Nina,  you  looked  lovely  last  even- 
ing! You  were  ungallant  enough  to  be  the  belle  of 
your  own  party.  That  blue  chiffon  over  the  green 
made  an  exquisite  effect!  Did  Tom  like  it?" 

"  Oh  yes.  He  liked  it  so  much  that  he  bought 
tickets  for  the  opera  tonight;  and  insisted  on  my 
wearing  it !  I  just  happened  to  see  it,  passing  through 
Shale's,  and  bought  it  on  the  impulse.  Wasn't  that 
dress  of  hers  marvelous — that  dull  gray  with  the 
Chinese  embroidery  and  those  Chinese  earrings! 
How  does  Tug  like  Miss  Storrow?  " 

"Well,  he's  still  going  through  the  motions  of 
devotion  to  his  family.  But  I  expect  to  lose  him  for- 
ever at  Mrs.  Fall's  whist  tomorrow  night." 

"  Well,  Phoebe,"  Mrs.  Fall  broke  out  when  the 
two  women  met  marketing  a  few  days  later.  "  I  must 
say  that  Storrow  creature  is  the  coolest  proposition 
that  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  She  goes  in  to  Boston  on 
the  train  with  Fred  every  single  morning  and  comes 
out  with  him  every  single  night.  Of  course  at  first, 
she  pretended  it  was  an  accident.  An  accident  your 
grandmother!  Nobody  takes  that  nine-twenty-five 
but  Fred — or  the  four-fifty  for  that  matter.  She  sits 
with  him  all  the  time,  of  course.  Fred  told  me  that 
he  wanted  to  do  something  for  her;  so  he  bought 
matinee  tickets  and  sent  them  to  her.  I  almost  told 


242  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

him  that  he  could  depend  on  me  to  do  the  family 
entertaining  of  strange  women.  But,  of  course,  I 
didn't!" 

'*  Well,  Miriam,  you  never  looked  so  well  in  your 
life  as  you  did  last  night.  Your  hair  was  really 
wonderful.  Who  did  it?" 

"  Madame  Lili.  Yes,  I  thought  it  looked  well 
myself.  And  Fred  told  me  that  I'd  simply  got  to  have 
her  do  it  twice  a  week  after  this." 

"And  didn't  Dolly  Day  look  lovely?"  Phoebe 
went  on. 

"  Yes.  She  made  every  bit  of  the  lace  in  that  dress 
herself.  She  said  that  she's  been  working  on  it  on 
and  off  for  years,  but  had  sort  of  lost  interest  in  it. 
But  she  got  a  spurt  on  last  week  and  finished  it." 

"  She  certainly  was  a  fairy  vision!  "  Phoebe  said 
enthusiastically.  "  She's  so  little  and  blonde  and  deli- 
cate. She  seemed  to  float  in  a  mist." 

"And  wasn't  Carl  proud  of  her!"  Mrs.  Fall 
laughed  a  little.  "  He  simply  couldn't  take  his  eyes 
off  her  all  the  evening." 

"Wasn't  the  Vamp  marvelous  last  night?" 
Phoebe  went  on. 

"  I  should  say — she  looked  like  a  nasturtium — in 
all  that  yellow  and  orange.  And  weren't  those  ear- 
rings just  the  right  touch?  They  were  like  little 
golden  lamps!  That  dress  gave  Molly  an  idea. 
She's  had  tucked  away  for  years  some  beautiful 


THE  VAMP  243 

brown  and  green  gauze  stuff  that  she  got  at  Liberty's 
in  London.  She's  going  to  have  it  made  up 
right  away — along  the  lines  of  Miss  Storrow's 
dress/' 

"  Oh,  Phoebe,  does  the  sewing-circle  meet  at  ycur 
house  as  usual?  "  Mrs.  Day  inquired  a  day  or  two 
later. 

"  Yes,"  Phoebe  answered. 

"  Did  you  ask  the  Vamp?  " 

"  Of  course !  I  don't  suppose  she'll  want  to  waste 
so  much  time  on  a  parcel  of  women.  She  may  come, 
though." 

"  I  don't  think  likely,"  Mrs.  Day  said,  a  slight  acid 
note  in  her  treble  accents.  "  Where  do  you  suppose 
she  is  this  afternoon?  Taking  a  walk  with  Carl.  He 
told  her  about  that  great  big  rock  on  Mt.  Fairview 
that  he  used  to  play  on  when  he  was  a  child,  and  she 
sort  of  roped  him  into  showing  it  to  her — she  really 
did,  I  heard  her.  Of  course  she  spoke  of  my 
going  too,  and  Carl  was  crazy  to  have  me; 
but  naturally  I  wouldn't  butt-in.  It's  too  long 
a  walk  for  me.  She  came  to  lunch  with  us.  I 
wish  you  could  have  seen  her  when  they  started  out. 
She  was  the  smartest  thing  you  ever  laid  your  eyes 
on;  a  brown  walking  suit,  very  short  in  the  skirt; 
tight-fitting  brown  gaiters;  and  oh,  such  a  pictur- 
esque brown  tarn !  Everything — suit,  gaiters,  shoes, 


244  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

gloves — all  the  same  brown.  And  tiny  amber  ear- 
rings !  I  never  in  my  life  saw  such  a  disagreeable 
girl,  did  you,  Phoebe?  " 

1  The  queer  thing  about  it  is,"  Phoebe  answered 
analytically,  "  that  though  I'm  trying  as  hard  as  I  can 
to  despise  her,  I  can't  quite  pull  it  off.  I've  a  sort  of 
sneaking  liking  for  her." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  why,"  Mrs.  Day  asked  in 
a  scathing  tone.  Then  she  laughed.  "  Cat  stuff, 
Phoebe!  Is  it  because  she  has  left  off  trying  to 
fascinate  Tug?" 

"  No,  ever  since  she  went  into  the  office  to  read  the 
evidence  in  that  Runyon  case,  she's  called  him  up 
every  day  about  it.  She  even  telephoned  him  at  the 
house  this  morning  while  he  was  at  breakfast.  Oh, 
no,  she  hasn't  soft-pedaled  one  atom  as  far  as  Tug  is 
concerned.  And  yet — well,  I'm  telling  you  the  exact 
truth  when  I  say  that  I  find  something  likable  about 
her." 

Mrs.  Day  groaned  in  an  ostentation  of  agony. 
"  All  right,  I'll  be  there  tomorrow." 

"  Well,  girls,"  Phoebe  greeted  her  guests  the  next 
afternoon,  "  after  all,  for  five  wrecks  of  matrimony, 
you  are  looking  pretty  well.  Everybody's  got  new 
clothes." 

Her  visitors  laughed;  but  there  was  an  element  of 
exasperation  in  their  mirth. 


THE  VAMP  245 

"  Where  is  she  this  afternoon?  "  Mrs.  Day  asked. 
"  I  don't  think  she's  with  my  husband." 

"  Probably  with  mine,"  Mrs.  Meredith  answered, 
"  if  not  with  Tug  or  Tom  or  Fred.  Perhaps  she's 
corraled  all  five." 

"  What  sort  of  a  guest  is  she,  now  that  you've  had 
her  for  a  week?  "  Phoebe  asked  curiously. 

"  Oh,  nice  enough — if  she'd  ever  let  me  speak  to 
my  own  husband.  I  had  to  signal  to  him  this  morning 
to  go  out  into  the  hall — to  ask  him  for  some  money. 
Curiously  enough,  the  servants  all  like  her  and  Belle's 
children  are  wild  about  her.  They  come  every  morn- 
ing to  see  her.  I  must  say  she  has  put  herself  out 
for  them — tells  them  stories  and  plays  games  with 
them " 

"  Well,  I  certainly  think  she's  a  strange  critter." 
Mrs.  Day's  tones  seemed  to  dismiss  the  problem  as 
a  hopeless  one. 

"  For  goodness'  sake !  "  Phoebe  emitted  sibilantly, 
"  here  she  is  now,  coming  up  the  walk.  What 
brought  her  here  ?  "  she  added  in  a  low  tone.  "  Our 
husbands  must  have  all  thrown  her  down !  " 

Her  guests  fell  into  a  constrained  silence;  listened 
avidly  to  the  footsteps  of  the  maid  crossing  the  hall; 
to  the  opening  of  the  door;  to  Miss  Storrow's  fresh, 
clear  tones.  And  then,  as  with  one  accord,  they 
plunged  into  ejaculatory  conversation. 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Storrow?  "  came  out 


246  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

of  the  chattering  in  Phoebe's  most  composed  accents, 
as  she  rose  to  greet  her  guest.  "  This  is  a  pleasant 
surprise.  I'm  delighted  to  see  you." 

'*  You  would  probably  like  to  add — *  and  to  what 
do  I  owe  the  pleasure?  '  "  Miss  Storrow  said. 

She  took  off  her  long  slim  squirrel  coat,  revealing 
a  close-fitting  gown  of  blue  serge,  almost  covered 
with  broad  black  silk  braid.  The  inevitable  earrings, 
this  time  of  jade  and  gold  and — as  usual — long, 
emerged  from  under  the  deep  loops  of  shining  black 
hair.  "  I'm  leaving  tomorrow;  so  that  when  I  got 
home  unexpectedly  early  from  my  walk  and  learned 
that  Mrs.  Meredith  had  come  here,  it  seemed  the 
easiest  way  to  say  good-by  to  you  all." 

"  Oh,  it's  too  bad  you're  going  so  soon.  You 
haven't  had  half  a  chance  to  know  Maywood." 
Phoebe's  conventionalities  carried  a  slight  frigidity 
of  tone.  "  We  are  all  sorry  to  hear  that." 

"  Are  you?  That's  nice  of  you — to  say."  Very 
slightly,  Miss  Storrow  accented  the  word  say. 
There  ensued  a  brief  chill  silence. 

Miss  Storrow  broke  it  cryptically.     "  I  think  I'll 
have  to  do  it,"  she  announced.    Then  without  expla- 
nation,  she   turned   suddenly  on   Mrs.    Meredith. 
"  Have  you  ever  visited  that  little  town  of  Bray 
where  I  was  brought  up,  Mrs.  Meredith?  " 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Meredith  answered  civilly,  "  I  never 
have." 


THE  VAMP  247 

"  It's  a  strange  little  place;  dead,  dull,  uninspired 
and  uninspiring.  I've  lived  fhere  all  my  life.  This 
is  the  first  time  I've  ever  escaped  from  it." 

"  I  hope  you've  had  a  pleasant  visit."  There  was 
a  faint  sarcastic  flavor  to  Phoebe's  voice. 

"  Oh,  delightful !  "  Miss  Storrow  replied,  appar- 
ently as  insensitive  to  the  sarcasm  in  Phoebe's  words 
as  to  the  perfunctory  quality  in  her  own. 

"  Maywood,"  she  went  on,  "  is  really  a  delightful 
place  to  live  in.  I  don't  think  you  Easterners  realize 
the  charm  there  is  to  your  suburban  towns.  Our' 
cities  are,  I  think,  more  brisk  than  yours.  But  some 
of  our  small  towns  are  deadly.  Bray  is.  I  was 
brought  up  in  a  gray,  chilling  atmosphere.  I  had  no 
father  or  mother,  or  sisters  or  brothers.  I  lived 
alone  with  an  aunt — an  old  maid  of  a  most  pro- 
nounced type." 

She  stopped  and  looked  around  the  circle  as 
though  trying  to  find  response  of  some  kind  in  the 
eyes  which  surrounded  her.  But  none  came.  The 
women  had  resumed  their  sewing;  were  looking  up 
at  her  at  intervals  with  an  air  of  polite  attention  a 
little  dashed  with  question.  Miss  Storrow  went  on : 
"  I  don't  remember  any  color  in  my  childhood  or  in 
my  young  girlhood — any  color  of  any  description. 
By  color,  I  mean,  actual  color  and  a  lot  else  besides 
— books,  pictures,  music,  the  theater,  dancing;  and, 


248  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

above  all,  beautiful  clothes  and  the  admiration  of  the 
other  sex." 

Again  she  paused.  Again  she  sought  the  circle  of 
eyes.  And  now,  that  interest  which  she  awaited 
began  to  shine  through  the  frigid  civility  of  their  ex- 
pressions. 

"  I  never  went  to  parties  or  to  the  theater.  I  never 
had  men  call  on  me.  I  don't  ever  remember  ever 
wearing  a  dress  that  wasn't  a  drab  horror.  I  don't 
remember  ever  having  anybody  tell  me  how  to  do 
my  hair.  Or  what  colors  became  me.  And  yet  I 
loved  beauty.  Oh,  how  I  loved  beauty!  How  1 

longed  for  a  mere  brilliant,  red  hair-ribbon At 

eighteen,  I  was  the  ugliest,  lankiest,  most  colorless, 
most  awkward,  most  uninteresting  creature  that  you 
ever  saw  in  your  life.  And  then,  at  the  precise 
moment,  I  complicated  matters  by  falling  in  love 
with  Jerry." 

She  paused  for  the  third  time.  And  now,  definite 
interest  broke  out  in  involuntary  movements  among 
her  listeners.  They  dropped  their  sewing.  They 
stared  at  her — frankly  astonished. 

"  Of  course,  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  that,  I  being 
the  kind  of  girl  I  was,  Jerry  was  the  handsomest, 
ablest,  most  popular  man  in  town.  He  had  all  the 
charms  and  all  the  accomplishments  proper  to  young 
manhood.  I  fell  in  love  with  him  in  direct  proportion 
to  the  degree  of  his  attractiveness.  I  knew  him — but 


THE  VAMP  249 

I  had  never  really  talked  with  him.  He  knew  me — 
but  he  had  never  really  looked  at  me.  It  was  not  to 
be  expected  that  he  would ;  for  every  beautiful  young 
thing  in  Bray  was  ready  to  fall  like  a  ripe  peach  into 
his  hand."  She  broke  off  suddenly  to  ask,  "  Are 
we  likely  to  be  interrupted  here,  Mrs.  Warbur- 
ton?" 

u  No,"  Phoebe  answered.  "  I  never  receive  call- 
ers on  the  Sewing-Club  day." 

"  Oh,  in  that  case "  Miss  Storrow's  voice 

tapered  off  into  silence.  She  put  her  hands  to  her 
ears;  removed  the  jade  earrings.  Quite  calmly,  she 
began  to  take  the  hairpins  out  of  her  hair. 

Nobody  spoke.    Her  audience  watched,  petrified. 

After  a  few  seconds,  Miss  Storrow  resumed  her 
narrative.  But  all  the  time,  her  fingers  were  travel- 
ing with  a  flashing  white  swiftness  through  the  flat 
masses  of  her  dusky  hair.  The  pile  of  shell  hairpins 
grew  on  one  end  of  the  table,  and  presently  a  tiny 
mound  of  invisible  wire  hairpins  joined  them. 

"  I  was  awfully  conscious — under  my  shy  awkard- 
ness — that  I  was  a  complete  failure  in  every  way  in 
which  a  girl  can  be  a  failure.  And  I  was  very  rebel- 
lious about  it.  One  day — I  don't  know  quite  how — it 
occurred  to  me  to  wonder  if  that  failure  were  neces- 
sary. There  were  half  a  dozen  girls  in  Bray  who 
were  extraordinarily  successful  socially  and  great 
favorites  with  the  men.  I  began  to  watch  those  girls. 


250  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

I  studied  them  with  a  closeness,  a  particularity,  a  con- 
stancy which  only  a  woman,  dissatisfied,  unhappy — 
and  slightly  jealous — could  study  her  own  sex.  And 
do  you  know,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  much  of 
it  was  the  result  of  system.  Not  all!  There  are 
some  women  who  are  born  to  conquer.  It's  natural 
with  them.  They  don't  have  to  think  of  it.  But  with 
the  rest,  it  is  a  system.  And  I  think  I  discovered  that 
system.  Perhaps  I  didn't.  Perhaps  I'm  like  those 
people  who  think  they  can  break  the  bank  of  Monte 
Carlo,  try  it  and  fail.  But  anyway  I  was  convinced 
that  I'd  found  it,  and  I  was  perfectly  certain  that  I 
could  put  it  into  operation.  But  I  had  to  go  to  a 
place  where  nobody  knew  anything  about  me.  And 
it  was  necessary  to  have  the  ground  laid  and  every- 
thing prepared  for  me." 

By  this  time,  all  the  pins  had  emerged  from  her 
hair.  A  curious  figure,  in  the  midst  of  its  shining  tor- 
rent, she  sat  for  a  moment  silent. 

"  I  came  into  a  small  legacy  a  few  months  ago. 
Instead  of  putting  it  to  a  useful  purpose,  I  decided 
I  would  use  it  proving  my  point.  I  had  one  friend 
— one  true  friend — Alice  Robinson.  I  went  to  Alice 
and  told  her  my  entire  plan.  I  said  to  her,  l  There's 
only  one  way  in  which  you  can  help  me,  Alice,  and 
that  is  to  send  a  letter  to  your  friends  in  the  East 
warning  them  against  me  as  a  flirt.'  That  was  the 
letter  you  received  from  her."  Miss  Storrow 


THE  VAMP  251 

addressed  herself  directly  to  Mrs.  Meredith.  "  I 
know  because  I  wrote  it." 

"  So  I  came  East  I  went  to  New  York  and  spent 
one  solid  month  just  buying  clothes — the  clothes  I'd 
always  wanted  and  never  had.  I  studied  those 
clothes  down  to  the  finest  detail.  I  said  to  myself, 
1  Every  time  I  enter  a  room,  it's  going  to  be  as  though 
the  lights  were  suddenly  turned  on ! '  A  clever  hair- 
dresser experimented  one  whole  morning,  trying  to 
find  the  most  striking  way  to  do  my  hair.  I  went  to 
a  beauty  shop  and  paid  them  to  teach  me  how  to  use 
cosmetics." 

Suddenly  Miss  Storrow  lifted  the  mass  of  hanging 
hair;  submitted  it  to  a  few  slashing  strokes  of  a  side 
comb;  pulled  it  straight  back  from  her  forehead. 
With  a  few  lithe  turns  of  her  hands,  she  coiled  it  into 
a  stiff,  hard  knot;  pegged  it  down.  "Ladies,"  she 
continued,  "  behold  the  original  Sibyl  Storrow." 

The  metamorphosis  was  a  curious  one.  The 
picturesqueness  which  the  flat  curved  black  loops  had 
given  to  a  rather  pale  face,  had  entirely  disappeared. 
Her  features  were  without  distinction.  Her  eyes 
had  no  beauty  to  help  in  illumination.  With  the 
earrings  gone,  she  had  turned  ordinary. 

The  six  women  stared  at  her  fascinated. 

"  You  see,  I  felt  if  I  could  come,  with  all  this  prep- 
aration of  clothes  and  cosmetics,  into  a  community 
which  had  been  warned  of  my  flirtatious  habits,  I 


THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

could  pull  off  a  sensation.  And  I  did  it."  She 
paused  again;  then,  "  Didn't  I?  "  she  demanded. 

Phoebe  was  the  first  to  recover.  "  You  certainly 
did." 

"  I  might  say  that  I  don't  expect  you  women  to 
forgive  me,"  Miss  Storrow  went  on  with  a  smile 
which  was  very  different  from  her  premeditated  vam- 
pire sparkle.  "  But  I  know  that  you  are  going  to  do 
it.  The  instant  I  laid  my  eyes  on  you,  I  knew  you  to 
be  a  dandy  gang  of  girls.  You  don't  know  how 
much  I  hated  flirting  with  your  husbands.  But  it  had 
to  be  done." 

Mrs.  Meredith  smiled.    "  Yes,  I  see  that." 

"  What  you  don't  understand  is  what  hard  work 
it  was.  It  really  was  the  hardest  kind  of  hard  work. 
I  made  a  discovery,  and  I  think  I  have  proved  it. 
That  discovery  is  that  any  woman  of  intelligence  can 
be  a  vamp  if  she  will  give  her  whole  attention  to  it 
and  keep  on  the  job  every  instant.  She's  got  to 
ignore  other  women  entirely,  of  course;  ride  rough- 
shod over  their  feelings;  behave  exactly  as  if  they 
weren't  there.  She's  got  to  devote  herself  to  the  men 
all  the  time.  If  they  start  to  draw  away,  she"  must 
leap  on  them  like  a  lion  on  its  prey.  Almost  any 
woman  who  is  willing  to  give  all  her  time  to  it  can  do 
this.  But,  I  reiterate,  it's  hard  work.  I  have  never 
slaved  so  in  my  life.  And  now  I'm  going  back  to 
Bray " 


THE  VAMP  253 

"  But  not  before  you  lengthen  your  stay,"  Phoebe 
interposed.  u  And  give  us  a  chance  to  get  really 
acquainted  with  you.  Won't  you  come  here  to  visit 
me?" 

"  If  I'll  give  her  up,"  Mrs.  Meredith  put  in  gal- 
lantly. 

"  Perhaps  we  can  share  her,"  Phoebe  decided  it. 

"  Are  you  going  back  to  Bray,"  Mrs.  Brodbeck 
demanded,  fascinated,  "  to  dazzle,  enchant,  and 
enslave  ?  " 

"Precisely  that!"  Miss  Storrow  admitted. 
"  Within  three  days  I  shall  be  the  talk  of  the  town. 
Those  earrings  might  just  as  well  be  rings  of  electric 
lights.  That  lip  stick  might  just  as  well  be  a  stick 
of  dynamite.  For  the  first  time  in  its  history,  Bray'll 
know  I'm  there." 

"  And  Jerry?  "  Mrs.  Day  queried. 

Miss  Storrow  meditated  a  moment.  And  as  she 
meditated,  involuntarily,  she  pulled  her  hair  into  long 
flat  loops  on  her  brow;  caught  them  there  with  invis- 
ible pins.  That  feat  accomplished,  she  sought  the  lip 
stick,  mechanically  applied  it.  "  Yes — Jerry.  I  don't 
know  whether  I  want  to  marry  Jerry  or  not  now.  My 
ideas  have  enlarged.  I've  seen  so  many  fine  men  in 
the  meantime.  But  if  I  still  like  him,  Jerry  is 
doomed.  I  suppose  in  that  case  he'll  propose  to  me 
in  about  a  month  after  I  get  home." 


CHAPTER  IX 
PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON 

WHERE  is  Edward?"  Ernest  asked  Phoebe. 
"  I  wanted  to  tell  him He  isn't  so 

much  interested  in  the  tournament  this  year,  is  he? 
He  doesn't  care  so  much  for  tennis  as  he  did,  does 
he?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,'*  Phoebe  said  in  a  tone  that 
held  a  challenge  to  argument.  "  I  think  he's  as  much 
interested  as  any  of  the  other  boys.  Of  course,  los- 
ing in  both  singles  and  doubles  early  in  the  tourna- 
ment has  made  some  difference." 

Ernest  did  not  seem  to  hear  that  argumentative 
note  in  his  sister's  voice.  His  eyes  beat  back  and 
forth  over  the  wide,  open  green  space  between  the 
big,  comfortable,  yellow-and-white  Colonial  house 
and  the  big,  roomy,  weather-beaten  Colonial  barn. 
The  brown  rectangles  of  the  two  tennis  courts  only 
partially  filled  that  space.  A  match  of  boys'  doubles, 
Toland  and  Jim  Connors  against  Tom  Furey  and 
Hammond  Halliway,  was  proceeding  on  one ;  mixed 
doubles  on  the  others.  Both  matches  were  fringed 
with  groups  of  children.  The  girls  sat  primly  on  the 
roofed-over,  vine-covered  settees  at  either  side.  To- 

254 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON  255 

gather,  Bertha-Elizabeth  and  Cely  Connors,  middy- 
bloused  and  taut-tressed  in  duplicate,  with  ties,  belts, 
stockings  of  the  same  daring  scarlet,  awaited,  racket 
in  hand,  the  call  to  the  girls'  doubles.  The  boys 
sprawled  on  the  barbarically-colored  Indian  blankets 
that  dotted  the  grass ;  or  they  clung  to  the  big  gray- 
lichened  rocks  that,  with  an  agreeable  irregularity, 
thrust  themselves  out  of  the  earth.  Almost  as 
crowded,  grown  people  sat  under  awnings,  brilliantly 
striped,  in  hammocks,  vividly  cushioned,  and  on 
steamer-chairs,  gorgeously  dotted,  on  the  barn- 
piazza.  At  the  back  of  the  house,  peaceably  distant 
from  the  noise,  a  few  black-silk  old  ladies  wandered 
in  Phoebe's  garden,  now  a  futuristic  welter  of  dah- 
lias and  asters. 

No  more  than  he  caught  the  question  in  his  sister's 
voice  did  Ernest  seem  to  see  the  changing  colorful 
scene  over  which  his  eyes  wandered.  "  I  think  Jim 
Connors  is  going  to  get  the  cup  all  right,"  he  said, 
mechanically.  His  eyes  fixed  for  an  instant  on  Tug, 
who,  tilted  back  to  a  perilous  angle  in  a  chair  placed 
on  a  table,  was  umpiring  the  doubles.  At  his  side 
was  a  pail  of  apples.  At  regular  piston-rod  intervals, 
Tug's  arm  dropped  to  it;  seized  an  apple;  demol- 
ished it  in  a  half-dozen  bites.  With  the  same  intent, 
unseeing  look,  Ernest  followed  the  progress  of  a  pair 
of  maids  who,  carrying  big  glass  pitchers  foaming 
with  milk,  emerged  from  the  house  and  made 


256  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

towards  the  barn.  ;<  This  is  the  third  year — he 
keeps  the  cup  this  time,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  Yes,"  Phoebe  answered.  "  Oh  yes,  Jim  will  win 
all  right."  A  protracted  rally  brought  forth  a  storm 
of  applause,  derisive  yells,  jeers ;  shouts  of  approval, 
cheers.  Phoebe  waited  until  it  died  down.  "  He's  a 
real  tennis  player,  Tug  says.  Tug  thinks  he  may  be 
a  champion  some  day."  She  stopped  to  laugh  a  little. 
"  Micah's  suddenly  got  ambitious;  he  practises  day 
and  night.  He's  playing  now  with  Michael  Connors 
in  the  other  court.  Do  stop  to  watch  him,  Ern.  He 
isn't  any  taller  than  his  racket." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  must  be  going."  Ernest's  look 
left  the  two  maids,  slid  back  to  his  brother-in-law, 
who  was  again  reaching  down  into  the  pail  of  apples. 
He  transferred  his  gaze  to  the  grown-up  group 
about  him. 

It  was  a  clear  calm  day  in  late  September,  so  sunny 
that,  beyond  the  shade  of  the  piazza,  parasols  bub- 
bled in  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  and  so  cool  that, 
within  that  shade,  sport-coats  and  sweaters  displayed 
every  variety  of  stripe  and  check.  The  group  of 
women  gathered  there  had  the  appearance,  typical  of 
young  mothers  in  this  day,  of  looking  ten  years 
younger  than  their  own  mothers  at  the  same  age. 
Short  skirts,  trim  shoes,  bare  heads,  they  might  have 
been  the  sisters  of  the  prim,  correct  little  girls  who 
fringed  the  tennis  courts. 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON          257 

Apparently  Ernest's  vision  registered  none  of  the 
scene. 

11  Oh,  you  haven't  got  to  go  now,  Ern,"  Phoebe 
remonstrated.  "  It's  early  yet." 

"Guess  I'd  better.  Maybe  I'll  be  back  later. 
Good-by,  Phoebe.  Good-by,  mother." 

"  Good-by,  Ernie,"  Mrs.  Martin  said.  "  Bring 
Sylvia  back  with  you." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I'm  going  home  for,"  Ernest 
replied. 

She  watched  her  son's  tall  straight  figure  pick  its 
way  through  the  groups  of  children.  "  Ernie  won't 
be  content  until  he  goes  home  after  Sylvia.  He's 
always  wanting  her  to  be  in  everything.  He's  a  little 
worried  over  her,"  she  explained.  "  He  thinks  she 
isn't  quite  as  strong  as  she  should  be  after  the  birth 
of  little  Sylvia.  And  he's  so  foolish,  because  she's  all 
right." 

"  Worried!  "  Phoebe  exclaimed.  "  What  makes 
you  think  he's  worried,  mother?  Sylvia's  perfectly 
well.  The  doctor  says  she  couldn't  be  in  better  con- 
dition. Has  he  said  anything?  " 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Martin  answered.  "  He  hasn't  said 
a  word.  In  fact  when  he's  with  me,  he  makes  a  point 
of  being  particularly  cheerful." 

"  How  did  you  know  it,  then?  "  inquired  the  tall, 
keen,  whimsical-faced  gentleman  who  was  Phoebe's 
father-in-law. 


258  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  I  don't  exactly  know  how  I  know,  Mr.  Warbur- 
ton," Mrs.  Martin  confessed.  "  But  Ernie  can't  fool 
me  and  never  could.  I  know  what  he's  thinking  and 
that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"  It's  that  female  business  of  intuition  again,"  haz- 
arded Mr.  Warburton  semi-humorously.  "  You  can 

always Pretty  play!  Tom  Furey's  game  is 

improving.  If  Jim  doesn't  look  out,  Mrs.  Connors, 

Tom  will  steal  that  cup  away  from  him That 

intuition  of  theirs  is  the  most  puzzling  thing  about 
women.  A  man  doesn't  know  what  it  is,  or  where  it 
is,  or  why  it  is,  or  how  she  comes  by  it,  or  where  it 
will  manifest  itself.  All  he  knows  is  that  she's  got 
it  and  he  hasn't.  And  it's  something  he  can't  under- 
stand or  beat." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  so  much  intuition," 
Mrs.  Martin  stated  cautiously,  "  except  where  my 
children  are  concerned." 

"  Oh,  it's  particularly  in  regard  to  children,"  Mr. 
Warburton  elucidated,  "  that  it  appears.  I've  always 
noticed  that  my  wife  knew  everything  that  was  going 
on  in  Tug's  mind  long  before  I  knew  there  was  any- 
thing going  on  there." 

"  Oh,  so  far  as  their  children  are  concerned," 

burst  in  Phoebe,  "  women When  I  was  a  girl, 

Mother  Martin  used  to  make  me  so  mad!  I  never 
could  conceal  a  thing  from  her.  She  seemed  to  read 
what  was  going  on  in  my  mind  just  as  if  it  were  a 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON          259 

newspaper.  I  couldn't  understand  how  she  did  it 
until  I  had  children  of  my  own.  Then  suddenly  I 
found  I  had  developed  another  sense  by  which  I 
could  gather  what  they  were  thinking." 

"  One  way  I  could  always  tell  when  Phoebe  was 
worried  or  blue  or  put  out,"  Mrs.  Martin  smiled  rem- 
iniscently,  "  was  that  suddenly,  for  no  reason  what- 
ever, she'd  dress  up  in  all  her  best  things.  Many's 
the  time  she's  come  marching  into  the  house,  looking 
very  much  worked-up  or  very  depressed  over  some- 
thing. She'd  go  upstairs  for  awhile  and  when  she 
came  down,  she'd  have  on  everything  she  could  put 
on.  I  wouldn't  know  sometimes,  for  a  long  while, 
what  it  was  all  about,  although  in  the  end  generally 
I'd  find  out.  But  she  never  can  fool  me  about  her 
state  of  mind.  Never." 

"  Don't  you  be  so  sure  I  can't,"  Phoebe  warned 
her  mother.  "  You  must  remember  that  having  chil- 
dren of  my  own  has  made  a  very  foxy  critter  out  of 
me.  I  may  put  something  over  on  you  yet." 

"  I  don't  expect  you'll  ever  do  that,  Phoebe,"  Mrs. 
Brodbeck  remarked.  "  I'd  hate  to  try  to  beat 
your  mother's  game.  She  gets  things  through  her 
pores." 

"  Mrs.  Warburton,"  said  Miss  Darling,  who  was 
Mrs.  Brodbeck's  guest,  "  hasn't  your  estate  grown 
since  I  was  here  some  years  ago?  I  don't  remember 
that  your  land  extended  to  the  corner.  Of  course 


26o  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

that  was  before  I  went  to  Europe  and  my  memory 
is  a  little  vague " 

'  You  are  quite  right,"  Phoebe  answered.  "  Mr. 
Warburton  was  so  afraid  that  this  lot  would  be  sold 
and  people  would  build  too  close,  that  he  gave 
it  to  me  for  a  birthday  gift.  At  first,  I  had  rather 
romantic  plans.  I  was  going  to  take  the  old  barn 
down  and  put  in  an  Italian  garden — sunk  below  the 
level  of  the  street,  with  stone  seats  and  a  fountain 
and  a  sundial  and  a  birds'  bath  and  all  the  usual 
things.  But  finally,  I  thought  I  owed  it  to  the  chil- 
dren to  make  a  good  play  place  for  them.  So  I  kept 
the  old  barn  and  added  two  tennis  courts." 

"  As  I  remember,"  Miss  Darling  said,  half  closing 
her  sharp  eyes,  u  it  was  a  mass  of  weeds  and 
bushes." 

"  I  should  say  it  was,"  Phoebe  agreed.  "  But  oh,  it 
was  such  fun  clearing  it  up.  As  we  cut  down  the 
bushes,  all  those  beautiful  rocks  came  into  sight. 
Some  of  them  had  the  most  lovely  lichens  on  them. 
At  first  if  any  of  them  scraped  off,  I  used  to  go  out 
and  glue  them  on  again.  But  I  soon  got  over  that 
habit  with  the  kind  of  family  mine  is.  But  the  great 
discovery  was  the  little  pond,  way  down  at  the  corner 
in  the  back.  I'd  never  had  the  remotest  suspicion 
that  there  was  one  there.  Of  course,  the  children 
knew  about  it,  but  they  had  never  happened  to  men- 
tion it.  It  seems  that  Bertha-Elizabeth  waded 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON          261 

through  it  one  day  in  her  bathing  suit,  to  see  how 
deep  it  was.  It  only  came  to  her  waist.  My  blood 
ran  cold  when  she  told  me  that.  I'd  a  vision  of  her 
getting  caught  in  the  mud." 

"  Does  it  dry  up  in  the  summer?"  Miss  Darling 
asked. 

"  No,  it  seems  to  be  fed  by  springs.  We  planted 
pond-lilies  and  forget-me-nots  about  the  edge.  It's 
really  quite  lovely  in  the  summer." 

"  Especially  when  I  cover  it  with  kerosene  oil 
to  kill  the  mosquitoes,"  interpolated  Tug,  who  had 
come  forward  in  the  rest  between  matches. 

"  The  barn  must  be  a  beauty,"  Miss  Darling  said. 
"  I'm  going  over  and  look  at  it  later." 

"  It's  one  of  the  most  beautiful  old  barns  in  the 
region,"  Phoebe  declared.  u  Oh,  when  I  think  that 
I  might  have  sold  it  or,  worse,  had  it  pulled 

down But  my  guardian  angel  saved  me  from 

that  sacrilege.  I  had  those  dormer-windows  put  in; 
gymnasium  upstairs;  kitchen  downstairs.  Then 
Mrs.  Connors  and  I  got  up  cooking  classes  for  the 
little  girls  in  the  neighborhood.  The  girls  are  al- 
ways making  candy  there.  On  Saturdays  they  often 
cook  their  own  lunch.  The  gymnasium  is  pretty  nice, 
too.  Tug  took  care  of  that.  The  children  keep 
many  of  their  toys  over  there;  and  all  the  tennis 
things.  And  on  rainy  days,  when  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood calls,  I  have  no  confusion  in  the  house/1 


262  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  It's  been  a  blessing  to  us!  "  Mrs.  Connors  said. 
"  My  Jim  would  never  have  had  the  chance  to  play 
tennis  if  Mrs.  Warburton  hadn't  made  it  so  that  he 
could.  My  Cely  plays  very  well,  too." 

"  Well,  I  certainly  gave  myself  a  perpetual  birth- 
day gift,"  Phoebe  declared.  "  It  has  brought  the 
greatest  happiness  to  both  Tug  and  me  to  be  sur- 
rounded by  so  many  children  all  the  time.  Oh, 
there's  Miss  Sharp !  "  she  exclaimed,  inconsequently, 

"  I  suppose  she's  come  about I  wonder  if  this 

water  is  ever  going  to  boil !  "  She  busied  herself  at 
the  capacious  table. 

That  table,  a  permanent  part  of  the  piazza  fur- 
nishing, was  as  big  as  a  kitchen  table,  the  top  glass- 
covered.  On  it  stood  a  brass  samovar  and  files  of 
cups  in  a  durable,  primitively-colored  peasant  ware. 
Sandwiches  piled  platters;  cookies  and  crackers 
filled  Indian  baskets. 

;<  Well,  even  electricity  isn't  quick  enough  for  me," 
said  Mrs.  Brodbeck,  "  I'm  simply  perishing  for  my 


tea." 


"  It  will  be  ready  in  a  minute,"  Phoebe  explained 
absently.  "  I  thought  I'd  turned  the  electricity  on, 
but  I  hadn't.  I  suppose  Miss  Sharp  has  come 

to "  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  approaching 

figure. 

Of  a  thin  willowyness,  of  an  anemic  blondness, 
Miss  Sharp's  elaborate  dressing  combined  the  faults 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON          263 

most  unhappy  for  her  particular  type ;  skirts  too  long, 
hat  too  broad  and  both  with  too  much  trimming. 
Everything  about  her  sagged  and  flopped.  Phoebe, 
herself,  for  trimness  and  trigness,  made  a  marked 
contrast.  Her  simple  navy-blue  gown  was  as  short, 
her  slim  white  boots  as  high,  as  fashion  permitted. 
She  wore  a  long  cherry-colored  silk  sweater,  tied  with 
a  sash  in  front.  Her  hair  was  fluttery  with  light 
and  shade.  Her  color,  under  her  vigorous  summer 
tan,  was  vivid  and  stable.  She  arose  to  greet  Miss 
Sharp. 

"  I've  come  about  Children's  Day,  Mrs.  Warbur- 
ton,"  Miss  Sharp  explained.  "  Is  Edward  here?" 

44  No,"  Phoebe  answered.  "  I  don't  know  exactly 
where  he  is." 

"  He  doesn't  seem  so  much  interested  in  tennis  this 
year,"  Miss  Sharp  commented.  u  He  was  just  filled 
with  it  last  year  at  this  time." 

44  Oh,  I  think  he  is,"  Phoebe  answered  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  curtness.  44  You  see,  he  lost  in  both  the 
singles  and  doubles  early  in  the  tournament.  So  of 
course  he  doesn't  have  to  stay  about." 

'4  I  met  Edward  just  as  I  was  coming  in  the  gate," 
Mrs.  Martin  interrupted.  4C  He  asked  me  if  I  would 
give  him  a  jar  of  my  apple  jelly  and  piccalilli.  Of 
course  I  said  I  would — but  what  on  earth  does  he 
want  them  for?  " 

44  Oh,  I  suppose  he's  going  on  another  picnic  with 


264  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Freddie  Freeman,"  Phoebe  replied.  "  Yesterday  he 
asked  me  for  a  jar  of  strawberry  jam.  They're 
always  going  off  into  the  woods  together,  and  this  is 
probably  their  last  chance  this  season.  The  gypsies 
break  camp  in  a  few  days,  I  believe." 

"  He  was  just  getting  on  his  wheel,"  Mrs.  Martin 
continued,  "  when  he  stopped  me.  He  was  headed 
for  the  camp.  How  long  have  those  gypsies  been 
coming  to  Maywood,  Mr.  Warburton?  They've 
never  missed  a  summer  since  we've  been  here." 

"  Over  a  hundred  years,"  Mr.  Warburton  replied. 
"  I  can't  remember  a  time  when  they  didn't  come. 
My  father  couldn't,  for  that  matter.  The  two  events 
of  the  year  in  my  boyhood  were  when  they  opened 
camp  in  the  spring  and  broke  camp  in  the  fall." 

11  I  used  to  be  frightened  to  death  of  the  gypsies 
when  I  was  a  little  girl,"  Phoebe  said.  "  We  had  a 
maid  once — you  remember  that  red-headed  Delia, 
mother — who  used  to  threaten  to  give  me  away  to  the 
gypsies  when  I  was  bad.  She  said  they  would  take 
me  off  and  never  bring  me  back  again.  If  I  thought 
any  of  my  maids  were  frightening  my  children  like 

that So  of  course  I  was  just  as  afraid  of  them 

as  I  could  be.  When  we  used  to  drive  past  them  with 
you  and  father  in  the  carryall Carryall!  Good- 
ness, how  mid-Victorian  that  sounds — I  used  to 
crouch  down  between  you  two,  hoping  they  wouldn't 
see  me.  But  my  children  seem  to  be  crazy  about 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON  265 

them.  Of  course  the  boys  would  be.  But  even 
Bertha-Elizabeth  is  always  buying  baskets  of  them. 
And  Hope  waves  to  them  whenever  we  drive  by.  As 

for  Edward Well,  the  sun  rises  and  sets  in 

Freddie  Freeman  for  him." 

"  The  same  with  my  Jim,"  said  Mrs.  Connors, 
"  and  young  Joe  Monahan.  They're  bewitched  by 
him.  Young  Freddie  has  a  bold  kind  of  a  way  with 
him." 

"  Edward  is  lengthening  out,"  Mrs.  Martin  com- 
mented to  her  daughter  and  to  Mr.  Warburton, 
under  cover  of  a  clatter  of  conversation.  ;t  With 
that  slim  figure  and  that  heavy  hair,  there's  some- 
thing almost  girlish  about  him,  isn't  there?  " 

14  It  hasn't  occurred  to  me,"  Phoebe  answered 
carelessly.  "  I  suppose  he  looks  about  as  Ernest  did 
at  that  age."  Although  she  appeared  not  to  take 
any  special  interest  in  the  subject,  her  voice  held  a 
real  question. 

"  No,  I  don't  think  he  does,"  Mrs.  Martin 
remarked  vaguely.  "  Ernie  was  always  a  great,  big, 
heavy  boy.  I  don't  think  he  was  ever  what  you  might 
call  so  refined-looking  as  Edward.  Ernie  was  such 
an  out-of-doors  boy  and  so  fond  of  sports  and,  oh 
dear  me,  so  untidy  always.  Edward  is  a  regular 
Martin,  though." 

Phoebe  pursued  the  subject,  but  still  with  the  air 
of  one  who  makes  conversation.  "  I  suppose  Edward 


266  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

looks  about  as  Tug  did,"  she  said  to  her  father-in- 
law. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  recall  what  Tug  looked  like," 
Mr.  Warburton  mused,  "  but  his  trouble  ran  the 
other  way.  I  was  always  afraid  he  was  going  to  be 
fat.  Didn't  seem  to  bother  his  mother,  as  I  remem- 
ber." 

"  I'm  glad  Edward  is  slim,"  Miss  Sharp  came 
into  the  conversation.  "  I  particularly  want  him  to 
be  as  slim  as  possible.  You  see,  I'm  going  to  make 
Children's  Day  a  harvest  home  festival  this  year. 
I've  found  the  dearest  little  dialogue  that's  just  suited 
to  my  class.  All  about  the  harvest  and  it's  being 
grown  from  little  seeds  planted  in  the  spring,  and 
how  our  lives  should  be  a  harvest  grown  from  seeds 
planted  in  our  childhood.  I  want  Edward  to  take 
the  principal  part.  It  requires  some  one  particularly 
— well  aesthetic-looking — like  Edward.  I  think  I 
shall  have  him  wear  long  trailing  draperies  of  green 
with  an  orange-colored  hat,  shaped  like  a  pumpkin, 
and  I'll  have  him  carry  a  sheaf  of  wheat." 

"  That  will  be  very  pretty,"  Phoebe  said  civilly. 

"  Yes,  Edward  will  be  too  sweet  for  words,"  Miss 
Sharp  prophesied.  "  I'm  glad  his  hair  is  so  long  and 
wavy;  please,  dear  Mrs.  Warburton,  don't  have  it 
cut  before  Children's  Day."  She  fumbled  in  the  long 
bead  bag  she  carried. 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON          267 

Phoebe  did  not  speak  for  an  instant.  But  her  teeth 
caught  first  on  her  lower,  then  on  her  upper  lip.  In 
the  pause  came  confusion,  as  one  set  completed  itself 
and  new  players  filed  onto  the  court.  Then,  "  I  have 
him  wear  his  hair  a  little  long  because  his  ears  stick 
out  so,  when  it's  short,"  she  explained. 

"  I've  copied  all  the  parts,"  Miss  Sharp  went  on, 
"  and  I  think  Edward  had  better  begin  studying  at 
once.  His  is  the  longest.  You  see,  all  the  other 
characters  address  questions  to  him,  and  he  explains 
the  principle  of  the  harvest  to  them.  He  will  have 
to  carry  .the  whole  thing.  But  then,  of  course,  I've 
always  depended  on  Edward  to  do  that — he  seems 
so  much  older  than  the  rest." 

She  put  the  typewritten  manuscript  on  the  table 
and  accepted  the  cup  of  tea  which  Phoebe  handed 
her. 

"  I'll  begin  with  Edward  at  once,"  Phoebe  said, 
sliding  a  cup  under  the  spigot  of  the  samovar. 

'  You're  awfully  kind,"  Miss  Sharp  murmured, 
"  as  always.  I  do  think  it's  so  wonderful  of  you  and 
Mr.  Warburton  to  hold  this  tournament  here  every 
Fall — not  to  speak  of  letting  anybody  play  on  the 
courts.  And  then,  if  that  wasn't  enough,  to  offer  cups 
— really,  I  think  you  two  people  are  wonders." 

"  You  wouldn't  think  so,"  Phoebe  affirmed,  "  if 
you  knew  how  much  fun  we  get  out  of  it." 


268  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

14  Well,  if  I  can  trespass  further  on  your  hospital- 
ity," Miss  Sharp  continued,  "  I'd  like  to  hold  the  re- 
hearsals here." 

"  Of  course.  Any  time.  The  nursery  is  always 
at  your  disposal,"  Phoebe  asserted. 

"  Oh,  thank  you  again,"  Miss  Sharp  said  ef- 
fusively. 

"  Here's  Edward  now,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Martin. 

Phoebe,  still  busy  at  the  tea-table,  appeared  not 
to  hear  her  mother.  But  after  a  while,  her  eyes 
raised,  watched  the  boy  who  was  approaching  with  a 
look  singularly  intent. 

He  was  a  tall,  slender  lad.  He  had  the  appear- 
ance, common  to  many  boys  of  his  age,  of  being  on 
the  verge  of  shooting  out  of  his  clothes.  He  seemed 
to  grow  under  your  eye.  Also,  a  little,  he  had  the  air 
of  a  machine  whose  parts  have  been  selected  with- 
out reference  to  each  other.  His  nose  seemed  too 
big  for  his  face,  his  head  too  heavy  for  his  neck, 
his  arms  and  legs  too  long  for  his  body.  This  sud- 
den disproportion  had  the  effect  of  breaking  into 
what  had  been  a  beautiful  childish  symmetry,  in 
which  the  clear  gray  eyes,  shot  with  gold,  and  the 
soft  red  mouth,  enclosing  glittering  teeth,  had  per- 
fectly matched  a  smaller  nose;  in  which  head  and 
limbs  had  perfectly  matched  a  slender  torso.  His 
skin  was  white.  His  heavy  hair,  chestnut  in  the  sun, 
broke  into  big  waves;  it  was  a  little  long. 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON          269 

He  stopped  at  a  group  of  boys,  folded  up  on  the 
ground  beside  them  to  a  bunch  of  sharp  angles. 

"  Edward,"  Phoebe  called  in  a  voice  singularly 
penetrating,  "  come  here." 

The  sharp  angles  straightened  out.  Edward 
walked  to  his  mother's  side,  stood  waiting.  His 
look,  which  had  carried  an  element  of  resolved 
eagerness,  changed  subtly  as  he  surveyed  the  people 
on  the  barn  piazza;  it  became  impassive.  "Son," 
Phoebe  informed  him,  "  Miss  Sharp  has  just  brought 
the  dialogue  that  your  Sunday  school  class  is  to  do 
on  Children's  Day.  You  will  wear  green  robes  and 
an  orange-colored  hat,  shaped  like  a  pumpkin,  and 
you  will  carry  a  sheaf  of  wheat."  She  watched  him 
intently  as  she  made  this  announcement. 

Edward  shifted  his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the 
other.  There  was  no  lightening,  rather  there  was  a 
deepening  of  the  impassivity  in  his  look.  "Yes; 
Miss  Sharp  told  me  last  Sunday,"  he  said.  "  Can 
I  have  some  cake  ?  " 

1  Yes.  But  first,  run  into  the  house  and  tell  Norah 
that,  when  the  baby  wakes  up,  she  can  bring  her  out 
here.  Then  you  and  Bertha-Elizabeth  can  begin  to 
pour  the  milk  into  the  glasses.  Ask  Cely  to  help 
you — and  Perry  and  Lawrence.  Pass  the  sand- 
wiches first,  and  after  everybody's  had  some,  the 
cookies  and  cakes." 


270  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  I  think  I'll  be  going,"  Miss  Sharp  announced, 
"  I've  got  to  see  some  more  mothers  today.  Sup- 
pose we  say  we'll  have  a  rehearsal  here  after  school 
Monday.  Good-by,  Mrs.  Warburton.  Good-by, 
everybody!  "  She  arose. 

Phoebe's  eyes  followed  the  ungraceful  figure  as  it 
manoeuvered  its  way  among  the  groups  of  children, 
stopped  at  Tug's  side  where  he  sat,  still  eating 
apples. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  Phoebe  poured  cup  after 
cup  of  tea;  until  Mrs.  Brodbeck  insisted  on  taking 
her  place.  The  children  ate  sandwiches  and  drank 
milk.  Comely  buxom  Irish  Norah  came  out,  carrying 
Hope ;  the  sleep-scarlet  still  on  her  round  cheeks  and 
the  sleep-stars  still  in  her  blue  eyes;  her  golden  curls 
bobbing  to  Norah's  buoyant  walk.  The  baby  sub- 
mitted placidly  to  her  mother's  flurry  of  kisses;  to 
being  passed  from  lap  to  lap  until  she  reached  her 
final  haven  in  Norah's  arms.  A  girls'  doubles  fol- 
lowed the  boys'  doubles,  and  Cely  and  Bertha-Eliza- 
beth were  ignominiously  beaten.  A  boys'  singles 
went  on  simultaneously,  and  little  Micah,  slim  and 
dark  and  as  incisively  cut  as  a  boy-Indian,  developed 
an  unexpected  cool  skill;  won  brilliantly  amidst 
laughter  and  applause.  But  through  it  all — through 
even  her  son's  victory — Phoebe  remained  a  little 
distraite. 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON          271 

Phoebe  walked  slowly  into  the  house  after  all  her 
guests  had  gone.  She  fussed  with  books  and  maga- 
zines at  the  big  center  table;  made  a  preoccupied  at- 
tempt at  putting  them1  in  order;  desisted  suddenly; 
fell  to  pacing  the  floor.  Abruptly  she  stopped  at 
one  of  the  long  mirrors  which  faced  each  other  from 
the  ends  of  the  room.  A  definite  look  of  unease  in 
her  eyes  grew  to  a  question.  The  gray  eyes  in  the 
glass  interrogated  her  sharply.  After  a  moment  of 
hesitation  in  which  she  did  not  answer  that  question, 
she  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  called  Edward. 
She  called  half  a  dozen  times  and  with  a  rising  em- 
phasis before  he  answered  her.  "  I  was  up  in  the 
attic,  mother,  and  I  didn't  hear  you  at  first,"  he  ex- 
plained finally  from  over  the  banister. 

"  Come  down,  son,"  she  commanded,  "  I  want  to 
read  that  Children's  Day  dialogue  to  you." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  Edward  answered  docilely.  He 
clumped  down  the  stairs  and  sprawled,  like  a  dis- 
jointed bundle  of  arms  and  legs,  on  the  couch  beside 
her.  Without  comment,  Phoebe  read  the  dialogue 
from  beginning  to  end.  Edward  listened  without  a 
ripple  of  that  impassivity  which  still  hung  on  him. 
Phoebe  waited,  after  she  had  finished,  as  if  expecting 
something.  But  Edward  made  no  comment. 

"  Now  you  read  it,  son,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  want 
to  see  if  you  understand  it." 

Edward  droned  his  way  through  the  entire  dia- 


272  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

logue.  Phoebe  corrected  a  pronunciation  here,  an 
inflection  there.  She  made  him  repeat  long  passages 
phrase  by  phrase.  Again  when  they  had  finished, 
she  waited.  Nothing  came.  "  How  do  you  like  it, 
son?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

"  Oh,  pretty  good,"  Edward  answered  noncom- 
mittally. 

"  I  guess  you'd  better  take  it  upstairs  into  your 
room  and  study  a  little  before  dinner,"  Phoebe  com- 
manded in  impatient  tones. 

"  All  right,  mother,"  Edward  agreed  stolidly. 

Alone  in  the  living-room,  Phoebe  resumed  her 
restless  pacing  up  and  down.  Once  she  stopped  to 
stare  out  the  window  over  the  deserted  tennis  courts 
to  where  her  husband  busied  himself  with  nets  and 
rackets,  making  order  of  the  confused  barn-piazza. 
And  once  again,  she  stopped  at  the  mirror  to  examine 
the  look  of  trouble  which  filled  her  eyes. 

Suddenly  she  dashed  upstairs  to  her  room.  There 
her  restlessness  concentrated  in  a  frenzy  of  action. 
She  turned  both  faucets  on  in  the  bathtub  and  while 
the  water  rose  to  a  steaming  height,  she  laid  out  on 
the  bed  an  elaborate  set  of  rose-pink  underwear, 
rose-pink  silk  stockings,  rose-pink  satin  slippers,  with 
big  scintillating  buckles;  an  evening  dress  of  rose- 
pink;  a  fluttery  iridescent  ornament  for  her  hair. 

"  My  word!  "  Tug  exclaimed  later  when  he  en- 
tered the  house.  "  Do  you  want  to  put  my  eye  out, 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON          273 

woman  ?  What  a  gorgeousness !  Company  ?  Or — 
don't  tell  me  we're  going  out  somewhere." 

"  Neither,"  Phoebe  answered  briefly.  "  I  just  felt 
like  putting  on  something  pretty  after  being  out  in 
the  open  air  all  the  afternoon." 

Tug  groaned  in  a  rapture  of  relief.  "  That  was 
a  horrid  moment !  I  don't  want  to  wander  one  inch 
from  my  own  fireside  this  evening.  But  you  certainly 
are  some  peach !  Why  don't  you  dress  up  like  this 
every  evening?  That  is,  if  you  won't  expect  me  to 
climb  into  evening  clothes.  Isn't  that  a  new  dress?  " 

"  Oh,  Tug!  "  Phoebe  ejaculated.  "  Don't  you 
know  that  this  is  my  old  pink-and-gold  that  I  had 
three  years  ago,  made  over?  Madame  Rosalie  fixed 
it  up  with  these  maline  wings  and  that  cloth  of  gold 
girdle." 

"  It's  a  perfect  pip !  "  approved  Tug.  "  Oh  say, 
what's  Edward's  Sunday-school  teacher's  name?" 

"  Miss  Sharp." 

"  Sharp !  Sure.  It  ought  to  be  Flat.  I  never  can 
think  of  that  girl's  name.  She's  one  of  those  people 
that  you  forget  all  about  until  you  see  them  again. 
She  stopped  beside  me,  while  I  was  umpiring,  to  bore 
me  with  a  long  account  of  a  dialogue  Edward's  to 
take  part  in.  Seems  to  me  he's  pretty  big  for  that 
sort  of  thing,  isn't  he?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  that  he  is,"  Phoebe  said  in  a 
formal  tone. 


274  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  How  old  is  he?  "  Tug  inquired. 

"  Oh,  Tug!  "  Phoebe  exclaimed  impatiently,  "  do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know  how  old  Edward 
is?" 

"  Sure  I  know,"  Tug  asserted  trenchantly. 
"  Ten." 

"  Twelve !  "  Phoebe  corrected  him  in  a  resigned 
tone.  "  Now  let  me  set  you  right  about  your  chil- 
dren, Tug." 

She  recited  the  statistics  with  true  maternal  ac- 
curacy and  speed.  "  Haven't  you  the  mental 
capacity  to  hold  those  simple  arithmetical  facts?" 

"  I  could  if  they  would  only  stay  those  ages," 
Tug  defended  himself,  "  but  they  won't.  You  mark 
my  words,  a  year  from  now  it  will  all  be  different. 
It's  been  like  that  right  along,  ever  since  they  were 
born.  But  really,  Phoebe,  I  think  Edward  is  too  big 
for  this  Sunday  school  dialogue  business.  That  Miss 
Sharp — geewhillikins,  how  I  despise  that  girl! — de- 
scribed in  great  detail  a  foolish  costume  he  is  to 
wear.  And,  believe  me,  if  anybody  had  ever  at- 
tempted to  dress  me  up  like  that  when  I  was  Ed- 
ward's age,  I'd  have  committed  arson  on  the  family- 
roof." 

"  I'm  glad  my  son  doesn't  have  such — such — 
•fiendish — impulses,"  Phoebe  declared  frostily.  "  I 
disagree  with  you  entirely." 

"Well,  all  right!     It's  up  to  you.     You're  his 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON  275 

mother."  Tug  dismissed  the  subject  blithely.  "  I'd 
hate  to  have  a  son  that  was  a  sissy,  though." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  worry  about  that," 
Phoebe  maintained  with  extreme  hauteur. 

She  did  not  take  up  the  subject  again  with  her 
husband.  But  that  night,  when  her  mother-in-law 
dropped  in  for  a  brief  call,  she  remarked  casually, 
"  Dear  me,  I  never  saw  anything  like  the  way  Ed- 
ward is  shooting  up.  He  outgrows  his  clothes  al- 
most while  they're  trying  them  on.  He  must  be 
taller  than  Tug  was  at  that  age." 

Mrs.  Warburton  answered  the  question  in  her 
voice  promptly.  "  I  don't  know  but  what  he  is.  But 
he's  not  so  big  round  as  Tug  was.  Edward's  much 
more  delicate-looking — a  much  prettier  boy — if  my 
son  will  pardon  me  for  saying  so." 

"  Go  as  far  as  you  like,"  Tug  reassured  his  mo- 
ther. "  Can't  hurt  my  feelings  by  not  calling  me 
pretty.  For  my  part,  I  think  Edward  is  too  good- 
looking." 

"  Well,  I  don't,"  his  mother  declared  immediately, 
"  although  he's  a  very  handsome  boy  indeed.  No, 
he  isn't  like  Tug  at  that  age.  He's  a  regular  War- 
burton  though,  if  I  do  say  it.  I  do  like  that  aesthetic 
air  he  has.  There's  nothing  rude  or  rough  or  coarse 
about  Edward.  I  can't  imagine  him  getting  into  a 
street  fight.  Tug  was  as  good  a  boy  as  any  mother 
would  want,  but  he  certainly  was  not  what  you'd  call 


276  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

refined-looking.  And  then  he  used  to  mortify  me  so 
much  by  getting  into  street  fights.  There  was  one 
time  there  when  there  was  a  different  enraged  mother 
coming  up  to  see  us  every  week." 

"  Well,  nobody  ever  called  me  a  sissy,"  Tug 
growled. 

"  I  don't  think  anybody  would  ever  refer  to  MY  son 
as  a  sissy,"  Phoebe  remarked. 

"  No,  he's  more  a  mother's  boy''  decided  Mrs. 
Warburton. 

Phoebe  turned  the  subject  abruptly  and  did  not 
refer  to  it  again  that  evening.  But  the  next  after- 
noon, when  her  father  dropped  in  for  his  regular 
Sunday  call,  she  approached  it  once  more. 

"  Does  it  strike  you,  father,  that  Edward  is  un- 
usually tall  for  his  age  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Martin  answered.  "  He  is  getting 
rather  weedy,  isn't  he?  He's  the  first  pretty  boy 
I've  ever  seen  in  this  family.  Must  take  after  the 
Warburtons;  the  Martins  have  never  produced  any- 
thing but  roughnecks.  If  this  keeps  up  though — 
there'll  be  only  one  job  open  to  Edward — movie- 
star.  I  don't  see  how  he  can  possibly  succeed  in 
business  with  those  eyelashes." 

Again  Phoebe  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"  Oh  say,  Phoebe !  "  Tug  broke  in.  "  You  must 
have  had  a  nightmare  last  night.  I'  waked  up  out 
of  a  sound  sleep  suddenly.  You  were  jabbering  the 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON  277 

funniest  string  of  stuff — something  about  Edward. 
I  called  to  you;  but  before  I  could  get  to  your  room, 
you  had  quieted  down  again." 

"  Oh,  I  remember,"  Phoebe  exclaimed  electrically. 
"  Queer,  I'd  forgotten  all  about  it.  Isn't  it  strange 
how  you  do?  "  Her  face  took  on  a  reminiscent  ex- 
pression, her  voice  that  softness  and  slowness  with 
which  people  recall  their  dreams.  "  I  thought — 
that  Edward  was  climbing  some  stairs — I  could  hear 
his  feet  on  every  step — there  didn't  seem  to  be  any 
end  to  those  stairs — they  just  broke  off  in  space,  way, 
way  up — and  I  was  afraid  he'd  plunge  headlong  off 
them.  That  reminds  me,  I'd  better  have  Edward 
recite  his  part  in  that  dialogue."  She  went  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairs.  "  Edward,"  she  called.  She 
waited.  There  was  no  answer.  Again  and  again 
she  called.  Still  no  answer. 

"  Did  you  see  Edward  go  out,  Tug?  "  Phoebe 
called  back  into  the  living-room. 

"  No,"  Tug  answered,  "  I  haven't  seen  him  this 
afternoon.  Well,  I  told  For " 

"  Just  after  Sunday  school,"  Phoebe  reflected 
aloud,  "  he  went  up  to  mother's  for  the  jelly  and 
piccalilli  she  promised  him.  I'm  sure  he  hasn't  gone 


out  since." 


;'  Well,  I  told  Fortescue "  Tug  began  again. 

"  Edward!  Edward!  "  Phoebe  called  in  a  louder 
voice. 


278  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  I'm  coming,  mother,"  Edward's  voice  answered. 
"  I  didn't  hear  you  at  first.  I  was  in  the  attic." 

'  Well,  what  in  the  name  of  goodness  are  you 
doing  in  the  attic  all  the  time?  "  Phoebe  demanded 
impatiently  as  her  son  appeared  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs. 

"  Oh,  putting  things  away — in  my  trunk,"  Edward 
said,  "  things  I  don't  want  until  next  summer." 

"  If  you  would  only  get  rid  of  all  those  birds' 
eggs  in  your  room,"  Phoebe  asserted,  "  I  wouldn't 
mind  if  you  stayed  in  the  attic  all  night.  But  now 
get  your  part  in  the  Children's  Day  dialogue.  I 
want  to  hear  you  recite  it." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  Edward  said  with  his  customary 
docility. 

For  an  hour  Phoebe  drilled  him.  Once  she  in- 
terrupted herself  to  say.  "  You  remember,  Edward, 
you  are  going  to  wear  a  long  green  robe  like  a  girl 
and  a  hat  shaped  like  a  pumpkin,  and  carry  a  sheaf 
of  wheat." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  Edward  repeated  monotonously. 

"  I  never  listened  to  such  pap  in  my  life,"  Tug 
remarked  the  night  of  the  first  rehearsal.  "  Nobody 
but  that  Sharp  girl — jiminy  crickets,  how  I  loathe 
that  female! — would  ever  have  picked  out  such  a 
pail  of  slush.  It's  all  right  for  the  other  children; 
they're  so  little.  Why,  the  biggest  one,  Dottie  Brod- 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON          279 

beck,  only  comes  up  to  Edward's  elbow — but  I  hate 
to  hear  Edward  reciting  those  silly  jingles." 

"  I  think  it's  very  pretty,  Tug,"  Phoebe  asserted 
in  a  lofty  tone.  "  The  effect  of  the  costumes — the 
silver  and  black  of  the  others  against  Edward's  green 
and  orange — is  quite  charming,  I  think." 

"  Well,  I  don't,"  Tug  said.  "  Edward  looks  like 
a  fool  in  that  pumpkin  hat." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  Tug,"  remonstrated 
Mrs.  Martin.  u  Edward  is  such  a  pretty  boy,  he 
couldn't  look  like  a  fool  in  anything.  And  he's  such 
a  good  boy!  You  don't  know  what  a  good  boy  he 
is !  I  don't  know  of  any  boy  of  his  age  who  would 
be  so  gentle  with  the  other  children.  A  lot  of  boys 
wouldn't  take  part  with  them,  and  you  couldn't  make 
them." 

"  Well,  I'd  respect  my  son  more  if  he  wouldn't," 
Tug  grumbled.  "  Mollycoddle  I  " 

"  Tug  Warburton,"  Phoebe  flashed,  "  don't  you 
dare  call  my  son  a  mollycoddle." 

"  Say,  Phoebe,"  suddenly  exclaimed  Tug  the  next 
morning  at  breakfast,  "  you  had  that  nightmare 
again  last  night.  Sat  up  in  bed  and  jabbered  the 
craziest  line  of  stuff  I  ever  heard.  All  about  Ed- 
ward. You  must  be  working  too  hard." 

"Working  too  hard!"  Phoebe  repeated  scath- 
ingly. "  Why,  I  don't  have  half  enough  to  do.  But 


a8o  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

I  did  have  a  recurrence  of  that  dream  I  had  the 
other  night.  You  know  the  one — I  told  you  about 
it — of  Edward  running  up  the  stairs  that  ended  in 
space." 

Somewhere  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  Phoebe 
woke  out  of  sleep  with  a  start.  She  was  sitting  up- 
right in  bed,  staring  out  through  the  window  onto 
the  blanched  moonlit  garden.  Through  the  open 
door  that  led  to  Tug's  room  came  the  sound  of  his 
breathing.  Otherwise  the  house  was  silent.  But 
Phoebe  bent  her  head  to  a  listening  attitude,  con- 
tinued to  absorb  that  stillness,  as  though  hunting  for 
a  sound  concealed  in  it.  Suddenly  she  jumped  out 
of  bed,  stepped  into  the  Chinese  slippers  which  lay 
at  her  bedside,  slipped  into  the  wadded  blue  dressing- 
gown  which  hung  over  a  nearby  chair.  She  glided 
quietly  through  the  hall  to  the  foot  of  the  attic 
stairs.  She  peered  upwards,  listening.  From  above 
came  a  faint  silvery  splash  of  light.  Phoebe  waited 
a  moment,  and  in  that  moment  of  intense  concentra- 
tion the  clock  struck  one.  Noiselessly  she  ascended 
the  stairs. 

On  his  knees  on  the  attic  floor,  a  figure  bent  over 
a  suitcase.  Around  it  lay  a  miscellany  of  uncorre- 
lated  articles,  clothes,  preserves,  a  tin  of  biscuits, 
a  bottle  of  ginger  ale ;  a  camera,  an  electric  torch,  a 
compass,  a  magnifying-glass.  The  figure,  pajamas- 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON          281 

clad,  was  tall  and  slender.  Only  the  top  of  the  head 
•showed.  The  hair  had  recently  been  cut — hacked 
apparently  by  some  amateur  hand  to  an  erratic  brev- 
ity. Phoebe — rigid  in  the  doorway — surveyed  care- 
fully but  swiftly  all  the  details  of  this  picture.  Her 
eyes  lingered  longest  on  that  chopped  head.  "  What 
are  you  doing,  Edward?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

Edward  started  convulsively.  The  look  of  terror 
that  his  face  turned  to  her,  changed  to  relief  when  he 
met  his  mother's  eyes,  then  to  sullen  bravado.  "  Oh, 
I  was  just  packing  up  some  things, "  he  said  hoarsely. 
Still  kneeling,  he  sat  backwards  on  his  legs  and  con- 
tinued to  gaze  defiantly  up  at  her. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  those 
things?  "  Phoebe  demanded.  Her  eye,  roving  from 
her  son  to  the  floor,  caught  on  the  interior  works  of 
a  clock,  all  carefully  wrapped  in  tissue  paper;  the 
old  revolver  that  was  part  of  the  Warburton  stage 
properties. 

Edward  wriggled.  "  Oh,  I  was  just  putting  them 
away  for  the  winter !  " 

"  But  surely,  you  weren't  putting  apple  jelly  and 
piccalilli  away,"  Phoebe  pursued  him  remorselessly. 

"  Well,  I  thought  I'd  give  them  to  Freddie,"  Ed- 
ward said  after  a  pause,  in  which  obviously  he  beat 
about  in  his  mind  for  a  convincing  explanation. 

'  You  were  going  to  run  away  from  me,  Edward," 
Phoebe  accused  him  pitilessly. 


282  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Edward  shuffled.  "  Aw  no,  I  wasn't,"  he  denied 
weakly. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  were,  Edward,"  Phoebe  renewed 
the  attack.  "  Don't  try  to  tell  me  anything  different! 
I  know  better.  Now  I  see  that  my  son  doesn't  love 
me  any  more.  He  couldn't " 

Her  eye,  again  wandering,  fell  on,  a  new  object 
among  the  litter  on  the  floor.  It  was  a  snapshot  of 
herself,  Edward's  initial  effort  with  his  birthday 
camera.  Phoebe  had  within  a  month  presented  each 
of  her  children  with  a  picture  of  herself — a  product 
of  the  latest  and  most  expensive  of  Boston's  artist- 
photographers.  But  apparently  Edward  preferred 
the  work  of  his  own  artistry.  Faded  in  background, 
the  figure  taken  crookedly,  stark  in  attitude  and  by 
some  divagation  of  amateur  skill,  rendered  noseless, 
Edward  had  framed  it  in  a  hideous  brass  frame, 
much  too  large. 

Phoebe  plumped  down  on  the  floor  beside  her  son. 
She  drew  him  into  her  arms.  "  Oh,  Edward,  how 
could  you  run  away  from  me  ? "  she  sobbed. 
"  Haven't  I  been  a  good  mother?  Don't  you  love 
me?" 

Edward's  bosom  heaved.  But  he  repressed  his 
own  emotion  manfully.  "  Don't  cry,  mother,"  he 
begged.  "  Of  course  I  do !  But,  mother,  I  will  not 
take  part  in  another  dialogue.  It  makes  a  feller  too 
ashamed  to  be  all  dressed  up  with  a  lot  of  girls  like 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON  283 

that.    It  was  fierce  last  year  when  I  was  only  eleven. 

But  now,  I'm  twelve Well,  mother,  I  will  not 

do  it!  I  won't!  I  was  going  to  run  away  with 
Freddie  Freeman.  And  if  you  try  to  make  me,  I 
will  run  away  sometime.  And  I'll  keep  running 
away.  And  you  can  put  me  in  a  reform  school,  if 
you  want  to.  I  don't  care.  I  won't  be  in  that  dia- 
logue. I  won't,  I  won't,  I  won't!  " 

Phoebe  did  not  lift  her  head  from  her  son's 
shoulder.  But  she  smoothed  his  hot  little  head.  In 
spots  her  hands  touched  the  naked  scalp;  elsewhere 
it  encountered  little  hard  bunches  of  hair  spurting 
off  at  stiff  angles. 

"  You  shan't  do  it,  my  son,"  she  said.  "  You 
shan't.  You  don't  understand.  Mother  doesn't 
want  you  to  do  anything  you  hate  so.  It's  only  that 
she  didn't  realize." 

"  Another  thing,  mother,"  Edward's  voice  soft- 
ened for  a  moment.  Then  it  went  on  inflexibly.  "  I 
will  not  wear  my  hair  long  any  more.  Makes  me 
feel  fierce.  Like  a  sissy.  I've  had  to  lick  about 
steen  boys  for  calling  me  '  Curly-head  ' !  I  guess  you 
don't  know  how  mad  you  get  when  somebody  calls 
you  '  Curly-head.'  " 

'  You  shall  wear  your  hair  just  the  way  you 
please."  Phoebe's  muffled  tones  were  very  humble. 
"  How  do  you  like  it  to  be  cut?  " 


284  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Short — like  a  boxer,"  Edward  answered  defi- 
nitely. 

"  You  shall  go  to  the  barber's  the  first  thing  to- 
morrow after  breakfast,"  Phoebe  assured  him. 
'  You  haven't  done  it  quite  right,  you  see."  She 
held  him  off  at  arm's  length  and  looked  at 
him. 

From  his  cropped  head,  Edward's  ears  stood  out 
like  bat's  wings.  The  elision  of  his  hair  seemed  to 
have  wiped  out  the  remaining  infantile  values  in 
his  expression.  All  its  disproportionate  qualities 
were,  in  an  equal  ratio,  exaggerated.  His  nose 
seemed  even  bigger  in  comparison  with  the  rest  of 
his  features,  but  it  matched  the  new  look  in  his  eyes 
and  on  his  lips.  Nobody  could  possibly  call  him  "  a 
pretty  boy  "  now. 

When  Phoebe  reached  her  room,  she  turned  on 
the  light,  stood  before  the  mirror,  re-braiding  the 
tumbled  amber  torrents  of  her  hair.  Her  eyes 
showed  the  signs  of  weeping,  but  they  shone  like  wet 
stars.  And  all  the  time,  happy  smiles  kept  rippling 
her  lips  until  her  face  broke  in  a  big  glare  of  hap- 
piness. 

u  Oh,  Tug,"  Phoebe  said  casually  the  next  morn- 
ing at  breakfast,  "I  suppose  you  were  right  and  I 
was  wrong  about  Edward's  being  in  that  dialogue. 
We've  just  had  a  little  talk.  Edward  says  he  feels 


PHOEBE  DISCOVERS  HER  SON  285 

too  big  to  do  that  sort  of  thing,  and  I  told  him  he 
needn't." 

Tug  beamed.     "  Good  for  son!  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  I've  just  written  Miss  Sharp.  And  last  night  he 
asked  me  if  he  could  have  his  hair  cut  short  to  his 
head.  It  seems  he  hates  it  the  least  bit  long." 

"  So  do  I,"  agreed  Tug. 

"  He  got  up  at  seven  to  go  down  to  the  barber's 
to  get  it  done." 

"  Well,  young  man,  what's  become  of  your  hair?  " 
his  grandmother  Martin  exclaimed,  when  Edward 
came  into  the  living-room  that  afternoon  after 
school. 

"  Oh,  I  had  it  cut  this  morning,"  Edward  ex- 
plained simply.  "  Say,  grandmother,  your  apple 
jelly  was  great!  I  ate  the  whole  jar  at  recess  this 
morning — me  and  Freddie  Freeman." 

"  Edward  asked  me,"  Phoebe  added,  as  her  son 
left  the  room,  "  if  he  could  get  out  of  that  dialogue 
for  Children's  Day.  He  said  he  just  hated  to  do  it, 
and  I  told  him  he  could." 

"  Well  now,  Phoebe,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  reassur- 
ingly, "  don't  let  that  worry  you.  I  know  exactly 
how  you  feel  about  it.  Of  course,  you'd  rather  he'd 
do  things-  like  that  and  be  a  credit  to  you,  and  of 
course  you'd  rather  he'd  wear  his  hair  the  way  you 
like  it.  And  I  don't  blame  you.  Any  woman  would 


286  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

feel  the  way  you  do.  I  hadn't  realized  what  promi- 
nent ears  he  has.  He  must  take  that  from  the  War- 
burtons.  But  there  comes  a  time  in  a  boy's  life 
when  he  wants  to  dress  the  way  he  likes,  and  noth- 
ing will  change  him.  I  went  through  it  with  Ernie, 
and  Mrs.  Warburton  told  me  she  went  through  the 
same  thing  with  Tug.  I  know  just  how  you  feel 
about  it,  but  there's  no  use  in  fretting.  They  will 
have  their  own  way  about  certain  things." 

At  the  end  of  this  speech,  Phoebe  contemplated 
her  mother  for  an  amazed  interval.  Suddenly  she 
broke  into  laughter.  "  Oh,  Mother  Martin,  I  feel 
as  tickled  as  punch.  IVe  done  it!  I've  done  it! 
I  never  thought  I  could,  but  I  have.  I've  put  some- 
thing over  on  you  at  last!  " 


CHAPTER  X 
HOW  IT  CAME 

Mrs.  Bassett  called  here  yesterday  after- 
noon,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  remarked  to 
her  husband  one  morning  at  breakfast. 

"Why  do  you  say  '  old  Mrs.  Bassett'?"  Mr. 
Martin  queried. 

Before  she  could  answer,  the  telephone,  on  the 
table  at  Mrs.  Martin's  right,  rang.  She  took  up  the 
receiver.  "  Oh,  good  morning,  Mrs.  Martin !  " 
came  from  it.  "  I'm  so  glad  that  I  got  you." 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Brodbeck!"  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin answered. 

"  It's  an  unearthly  hour  to  telephone,  but  I  simply 
couldn't  let  you  get  away  before  I'd  nailed  you.  I 
hope  I  didn't  get  you  out  of  bed.  I've  called  you 
up  to  ask  if  you'll  serve  on  that  Social  Insurance 
committee  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  serve  on  any  committee,"  Mrs. 
Martin  objected.  "  I'm  awful  busy  these  days  just 
being  a  happy  grandmother." 

"  I  know  you  are,"  Mrs.  Brodbeck  agreed  sym- 
pathizingly.  "  But  you  are  the  only  one  that's  got 

287 


288  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

any  hold  on  the  subject.  Say  yes,  please.  You're 
always  such  a  helpful  darling!  " 

"  I  suppose  I'll  have  to,"  Mrs.  Martin  admitted 
with  resignation.  "  I've  been  trembling  in  my  boots 
for  fear  this  would  come." 

"That's  a  duck!"  Mrs.  Brodbeck  approved. 
1  You're  chairman.  Will  you  have  the  committee 
meetings  at  your  house  ?  The  other  members  are — 
have  you  a  pencil  there?  " 

"  Yes."  Mrs.  Martin  reached  for  the  pad  and 
pencil  which  hung  suspended  from  the  telephone; 
made  a  few  quick  notes.  "  All  right!  I'll  get  them 
together  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  I  was  waiting  for  that,"  Mrs.  Martin  continued 
as  though  there  had  been  no  interruption.  "  But  I 
used  the  term — what  is  it  they  say  at  the  women's 
club? — oh  yes,  advisedly.  I  said  old  because  she  is 
old.  She  was  only  middle-aged  a  few  months  ago. 
But  now  she's  old." 

"What  did  it?"  Mr.  Martin  asked,  a  little 
absently.  His  attention  seemed  concentrated  on  his 
grapefruit. 

u  I  don't  know  what  it  was  in  her  case,"  Mrs. 
Martin  answered  in  a  meditative  tone.  "  But  I 
think  it  was "  Mrs.  Martin  took  up  the  re- 
ceiver again  at  a  second  sharp  ring  of  the  bell. 
"  Oh,  Mrs.  Martin,"  came  Mrs.  Day's  fluty  voice, 
"would  you  give  me  your  rule  for  mincemeat? 


HOW  IT  CAME  289 

That  pie  the  Sewing-Club  had  at  Phoebe's  the  other 
day  was  so  delicious,  and  Phoebe  said  it  was  your 
recipe — that  you  actually  made  it  for  her.  If  you 
have  any  objection  to  giving  it " 

"  Of  course  I  haven't!  "  Mrs.  Martin  insisted  in- 
dignantly; "  and  I'll  come  over  and  make  the  first 
batch  for  you,  if  you'd  like." 

"  Oh,  you  angel !  "  Dolly  Day  exclaimed.     "  I'll 

be  grateful  to  you  as  long  as  I " 

4  Yes,  it  was  worry," — Mrs.  Martin  took  up  her 
conversation  just  where  she  left  it, — "  worry  over 
Annette's  illness.  I  have  watched  so  many  people 
take  the  jump  from  middle  age  to  old  age.  And 
there  are  so  many  different  ways  it  is  done.  Some- 
times it  comes  as  the  result  of  grief — or  strain — 
or  sickness.  Oh,  Edward !  "  Her  voice  suddenly 
developed  a  note  almost  youthful  in  its  poignant 
quality.  "  How  I  do  hate  to  grow  old!  Old  age — 
I  hate  those  two  words!  I  have  the  shivers  when- 
ever I  think  of  them!  Old  age!  How  I  dread  it! 
Edward,  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  dread  it." 

Mr.  Martin  looked  at  his  wife  strangely  for  a 
moment.  Something  seemed  about  to  burst  from  his 
lips;  a  something  abrupt,  sententious,  conclusive. 
But  he  checked  himself;  obviously  said  something 
that  was  a  substitute. 

*  There  are  other  ways  in  which  it  conies,  besides 
grief "  he  began. 


290  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

But  the  telephone  burred  interruption  again. 
"Oh,  Mrs.  Martin,  good  morning!  I've  just  had 
a  barrelful  of  wonderful  pine-cones  sent  me  from 
California — the  biggest  and  the  most  gorgeous  ones 
I've  ever  seen  in  my  life.  I'm  sending  you  over  a 
basketful.  They  look  wonderful  heaped  on  both 
sides  e>f  the  fireplace.  I  know  you'll  love  them." 

"  You  were  saying,  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  broke 
out  instantly  on  the  tail  of  her  thanks,  "  that  old  age 
came  in  other  ways  besides  grief " 

"  Or  strain  or  sickness,"  Mr.  Martin  ended. 

"  Td  like  to  know  how,"  Mrs.  Martin  demanded 
after  a  baffled  instant.  "  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Wait  and  see,"  Mr.  Martin  admonished. 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  old  age  that  I  dread  so  much," 
Mrs.  Martin  became  more  and  more  analytic,  "  but 
that  horrid  interval  when  we  realize  that  we're  grow- 
ing old.  It's  like  the  way  we  felt " 

Again  Mrs.  Martin  seized  the  peremptory  re- 
ceiver. "  Oh,  Mrs.  Martin!  It's  me — Annie  Doyle. 
Little  Theresa's  front  tooth  is  loose.  It's  the  first 
one.  And  I  don't  know  whether  to  pull  it — or  let 
it  come  out  just  natural-like.  Is  she  likely  to  swally 
it  in  her  sleep?  What  do  you  think,  woman  dear?  " 

"I'd  pull  it,"  Mrs.  Martin  advised.  "  Tie  a 
thread  at  one  end  to  the  tooth,  Annie,  and  at  the 
other  to  the  doorknob,  and  then  close  the  door " 

" — on    that    trip    to    Jamaica,"    she    went    on 


HOW  IT  CAME  291 

smoothly,  "  when  we  were  nearly  wrecked  and  they 
transferred  us  from  the  Stockton  to  the  Martinez  in 
mid-ocean.  I  wasn't  afraid  when  I  was  on  the  Stock- 
ton and  I  wasn't  afraid  when  they  got  us  on  the  Mar- 
tinez. But  on  that  little  boat  between — well,  I  was 
scared  nearly  out  of  my  five  senses.  And  I  feel  ex- 
actly like  that  when  I  think  of  crossing  the  bridge 
between  middle  age  and  old  age.  I  feel  as  though  it 
were  going  to  hurt." 

"  Well,  Bertha,  don't  think  that  you're  the  only 
one  who's  having  these  thoughts — damn  that  tele- 
phone! Why  do  you  answer  it  so  early?" 

"  I  don't  mind  it  at  all.  I  like  it.  Oh,  good 
morning,  Mrs.  Winter!  " 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Martin,  I've  called  you  up  about  those 
layettes  that  you  made  up  for  the  Swanson  people  at 
the  time  of  the  flood  last  year — everybody  says  that 
they  were  so  satisfactory.  And  I've  got  to  send 
some  to  Nebraska — you  know,  the  place  where  that 
terrible  tornado  happened!  Will  you  send  me  a  list 
of  the  articles?" 

"  I  was  about  to  say  and  will  continue  to  try  to 
say — "  Mr.  Martin  took  it  up  when  Mrs.  Martin 
had  finished  dictating  the  list — "  even  if  my  wife  is 
the  most  popular  woman  in  Maywood — that  there 
are  others  who  feel  the  same  way — among  them 
your  affectionate  husband." 

"At  least,"  Mrs.  Martin  said,  "  we've  got  each 


292  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

other.  Well,  I  don't  know  when  old  age  will  come, 
of  course — all  I  do  know  is  that  I  hate  the  thought 
of  it." 

Again  Mr.  Martin  looked  strangely  at  his  wife 
and  again,  obviously,  he  crushed  something  back. 

"  Do  you  know  what  day  this  is?  "  Mrs.  Martin 
suddenly  demanded. 

"  Yes,  Bertha-Elizabeth's  birthday." 

"  You  know  that  we're  going  to  Phoebe's  to  din- 
ner tonight?  "  Mrs.  Martin  stated  questioningly. 

"  I've  not  forgotten,"  Mr.  Martin  replied  briefly. 

"  Of  course  I've  bought  Bertha-Elizabeth  a  little 
present.  But  I  think  it  would  please  her,  Edward, 
if  you  got  her  something  special  yourself.'* 

"  Oh,  that  was  all  attended  to — weeks  ago,"  Mr. 
Martin  asserted  comfortably. 

He  volunteered  no  confidences,  however.  This 
time  it  was  Mrs.  Martin  who  looked  strangely  at 
Mr.  Martin.  And  for  an  instant  something,  ulti- 
mately unsaid,  beat  for  egress  at  her  lips.  "  Oh, 
of  course!  You  and  Bertha-Elizabeth!"  she  sub- 
stituted indulgently.  "  She's  your  favorite  grand- 
child— and  you  know  it,  Edward  Martin." 

"  No,  I  have  no  favorite  grandchild,"  Mr.  Martin 
asserted  forcibly. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  Mrs.  Martin  teased  him.  "  Every- 
body knows  she's  your  pet.  Everybody  speaks  about 
it!  Phoebe  wants  to  have  the  dinner  rather  early; 


HOW  IT  CAME  293 

so  both  the  babies  can  be  there.  Will  you  be  able 
to  get  that  five-ten  train,  Edward?  " 

"  I  can't  be  quite  sure  yet,"  Mr.  Martin  replied. 
"  But  I'll  try." 

When  Mr.  Martin  left,  Mrs.  Martin  watched 
from  the  window  until  her  husband  had  disappeared. 
Then  she  flew  to  the  telephone. 

"  Phoebe,"  she  called  into  it,  "  don't  you  think  you 
ought  to  tell  your  father?  I've  a  feeling  that  he's 
going  to  take  it  awfully  hard." 

"  Now,  Mother  Martin,  if  you  go  ruining  my  sur- 
prise  " 

"  I  won't  say  a  word  to  him,  Phoebe,  but  I  don't 
think  you  are  making  it  a  pleasant  occasion  for  him. 
You  remember  how  he  carried  on  when  you " 

"  It's  all  right,  mother.  I'm  sure  of  that.  Don't 
bother  about  it  any  more.  The  children  will  be  over 
in  a  few  minutes." 

"  All  right,"  Mrs.  Martin  said  in  a  resigned  voice 
to  Phoebe's  first  statement  and  "  All  right!"  in  a 
delighted  one  to  her  second. 

The  house  was  quiet  for  a  while,  except  for  Mrs. 
Martin's  colloquies  with  the  maids  in  the  kitchen; 
her  long  telephone  consultations  with  the  butcher, 
the  grocer,  the  confectioner.  Then  throwing  on  a 
sweater,  she  went  into  the  garden;  plucked  an  arm- 
ful of  the  thinning  autumn  growths.  She  repeated 
this  process  until  the  entire  lower  floor  bloomed 


294  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

with  the   fall   colorings.      At  about  nine,   the  bell 
rang. 

When  Delia  opened  the  door,  the  procession  of 
the  Martin  grandchildren  seemed  to  extend  from 
the  steps  to  the  gate.  Phoebe's  youngest  boy,  the 
wiry,  straight-haired  Micah,  stood  with  his  hand  still 
on  the  bell;  like  a  bronze  of  a  boy.  Edward,  gray- 
eyed  and  red-lipped,  with  lashes  so  long  they  made 
a  violet  contrast  with  his  cropped  head,  was  spin- 
ning a  top  on  the  concrete  path.  Long,  lean,  lanky; 
in  the  husky-voiced  shooting-limbed  period  of  ado- 
lescence, but  still  a  freckly,  snub-nosed  replica  of  his 
father,  Toland  came  next.  Toland  was  trundling, 
with  many  strange  jerks  and  sudden  full  stops,  a 
perambulator,  which  contained  the  youngest  Warbur- 
ton  baby,  Titian-headed  Aline.  As  he  approached, 
the  reason  for  his  flounderings  became  evident. 
Little  golden-haired  Hope  stood  within  the  frame  of 
the  carriage-handles  and,  fondly  believing  herself  to 
be  the  sole  means  of  its  locomotion,  was  pushing  it 
forward  with  such  erratic  upheavals  of  baby  strength 
that  occasionally  it  nearly  threw  her  headlong.  Be- 
hind this  came  the  Martin  perambulator,  in  which  lay 
Ernest's  youngest — a  little,  brown  butter-ball  of  a 
baby — black-eyed  Dorcas.  Her  two  sisters,  jumping 
rope,  formed  an  acrobatic  bodyguard;  Elizabeth- 
Marian,  a  slender  elf  of  a  child,  of  so  exquisitely 
pale  a  blonde  coloring  that  it  was  as  though  she  were 


HOW  IT  CAME  295 

made  of  silver  tissue ;  and  Sylvia,  brown-haired  and 
gray-eyed,  a  typical  little  Puritan  maiden  in  her  plain 
navy-blue  cape,  her  severe  Dutch  crop,  and  her 
serious  brows.  Bringing  up  the  rear,  lost  in  baseball 
argument,  strolled  the  Martin  twins ;  big,  full-bodied 
adolescents  now ;  bursting  with  vitality. 

It  was  not  alone  to  the  small  army  of  Martin 
grandchildren  that  Delia  opened  the  door,  but  to  a 
confusion  which  seemed  immediately  to  raise  in  the 
old  house  echoes  of  a  long  dead  excitement. 

"  Wheel  the  carriages  right  into  the  living-room, 
Delia !  "  Mrs.  Martin  ordered,  out  of  the  confusion 
of  greetings  and  kisses.  "  I'll  keep  the  babies 
down  here  with  me.  The  rest  of  you  can  do 
exactly  as  you  please."  She  established  red-headed, 
gray-eyed  Aline  at  one  side  of  the  room,  and  brown- 
eyed,  shock-headed  Dorcas  at  the  other.  They  bab- 
bled and  bubbled  at  each  other  in  a  vain  effort  to 
establish  communication. 

The  others  trooped  in  the  accustomed  way  up- 
stairs to  the  nursery.  Mrs.  Martin  followed.  The 
little  girls  gravitated  instantly  to  the  corner  which 
held,  neatly  ranged,  a  large  family  of  dolls;  their 
wardrobes;  their  housekeeping  arrangements.  The 
little  boys  made  for  a  shelf,  piled  with  games.  The 
older  ones  seized  the  football  paraphernalia;  slid 
clatteringly  down  the  backstairs  to  the  yard. 

"  I  can't  stay  here  long,  grandma,"  big  Toland  ex- 


THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

plained  in  his  husky,  changing  voice.  "  But  there  is 
a  book  here  on  Dutch  history  that  I  want  to  look 
something  up  in.  I've  got  to  write  a  composition. 
Do  you  remember  the  name,  grandma?  That  one 
that  grandpa's  so  crazy  about?  " 

"  '  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,'  "  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin answered. 

"Sure!  that's  it!" 

"  It's  downstairs  in  the  library,  Toland,  on  the 
shelf  near  the  side  window,"  Mrs.  Martin  directed 
absently.  She  looked  about  at  the  quiet  room  for  an 
instant;  then  noiselessly  descended  the  stairs.  In  the 
living-room,  Delia  was  just  handing  Dorcas  a  bottle. 
Aline  was  still  bubbling  and  babbling.  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin lifted  the  great  copper-headed,  purple-cheeked 
baby  out  of  the  carriage;  walked  half  a  dozen  times 
the  length  of  the  two  rooms. 

"  You  great  big  girl !  "  she  apostrophized  her 
grandchild,  "  are  you  going  to  be  a  giantess? — • 
Grandma  could  eat  her  alive  she's  so  sweet.  Oh, 
there's  Mrs.  Eaton  coming  up  the  walk,  Delia.  You 
go  to  the  door;  Dorcas  will  take  care  of  the  bottle 


now." 


uOh,  Mrs.  Martin,"  Mrs.  Eaton  said,  "  I've 
called  for  the  slip  of  that  English  ivy  you  said  you'd 
give  me  the  other  day.  My  soul  and  body,  what  a 
stunning  kid  Aline  is!  She  looks  like  a  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds." 


HOW  IT  CAME  297 

"Isn't  she  beautiful?"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed 
proudly.  "  Delia,  get  me  the  scissors,  please !  "  Still 
carrying  her  grandchild,  she  gave  directions  for  the 
cutting  of  a  slip  from  the  big  pot  of  ivy  which  grew 
in  the  corner. 

The  morning  wore  on.  Mrs.  Martin  took  up  one 
baby,  then  the  other.  She  was  interrupted  both  from 
within  and  without  a  dozen  times.  Augmenting  con- 
fusion upstairs  occasionally  called  her  to  the  adjust- 
ment of  internecine  strife.  Neighbors  dropped  in; 
one  to  invite  her  and  Mr.  Martin  to  dinner,  to  meet 
an  old  friend  from  their  Middleton  days;  another, 
suddenly  called  on  to  preside  at  a  committee  meet- 
ing, to  get  a  little  training  in  parliamentary  law. 
But  all  of  the  time,  the  preparations  for  luncheon 
went  on  smoothly.  And  at  one,  the  ten  of  them  sat 
down  to  a  grandparently  repast  which  began,  hygieni- 
cally  enough,  with  chicken  soup  and  ended  with  a 
grand  flourish  of  ice-cream,  cakes,  fruit,  candy,  nuts. 

As  Mr.  Martin  came  up  the  walk  to  Phoebe's 
house  that  evening,  the  door  opened  and  Phoebe, 
herself,  came  running  through  the  garden  to  meet 
him. 

"  Welcome,  father !  "  she  called.  "  And  good  for 
you !  You  got  that  early  train,  after  all." 

"Greetings!  Yes,  one  hour  ago,  I  thought  I 
couldn't  make  it.  But  here  I  am." 


298  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

It  was  a  sharp  November  twilight.  Large  single 
star-tapers  had  begun  to  flame;  and  already  that 
thread  of  green  gold,  which  was  the  crescent  moon, 
was  retreating  before  their  light.  Phoebe  wore  no 
wrap.  Her  silvery  evening-gown  bared  a  bronze- 
brown  square  of  her  neck;  covered  her  shoulders 
with  mere  floating  films.  She  linked  one  vigorous 
round  arm  with  her  father's.  But  as  she  walked 
up  the  path,  the  keen  dusk  seemed  but  to  make  her 
gray  eyes  more  brilliant,  to  deepen  that  permanent 
bloom  in  her  cheeks. 

"  Do  you  know,  Edward  C.  Martin,  that  you  are 
the  best  father  I've  ever  had?"  she  remarked  in 
a  coaxing  tone.  She  rubbed  her  chin  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Experience  has  taught  me,"  Mr.  Martin  an- 
nounced, "  that  there's  an  object  in  this  flattery.  I 
throw  up  my  hands  at  once.  What  is  it  you  want 
now?" 

"  Nothing,"  Phoebe  asserted  promptly  and  trench- 
antly. "  Only  an  answer  to  a  direct  question,"  she 
immediately  contradicted  herself.  "  Father,  your 
only  daughter  is  suffering  from  an  attack  of  jealousy. 
And  of  whom  do  you  suppose?  Her  own  child. 
Father,  do  you  love  Bertha-Elizabeth  more  than  you 
love  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  Mr.  Martin  replied  with  a  prompt- 
ness and  trenchancy  equal  to  Phoebe's  own,  "  a 
hundred  times  more." 


HOW  IT  CAME  299 

Phoebe  laughed.  "  I've  long  suspected  it."  She 
gave  her  father's  arm  a  little  loving  squeeze  and  his 
hand,  that  by  this  time  clasped  hers,  an  approving 
pat. 

"Has  she  had  a  nice  birthday?"  Mr.  Martin 
asked. 

"  Oh,  lovely !  "  Phoebe  answered  offhandedly. 
"  Luncheon  of  sixteen  girls — and,  believe  me, 
father,  it  was  some  luncheon.  And  of  course, 
loads  of  presents  and  telephone  messages  all  day 
long.  Bertha-Elizabeth  seems  to  be  very  popu- 
lar. It's  a  little  strange  to  me — considering  her 
type—" 

"  It  isn't  strange  to  me,"  asserted  Mr.  Martin. 

*  You're  prejudiced,  old  dear!  "  Phoebe  laughed. 
"  But  I  must  say  your  affection  seems  to  be  returned 
in  kind.  She  could  have  had  a  dance  tonight,  but  she 
preferred  a  family  dinner — so  that  she  could  be  with 
you,  I  think.  To  be  sure,  her  father  said  he'd  give 
her  the  dance  later." 

In  spite  of  the  vivacity  of  her  mood  and  the  vol- 
ume of  her  silvery  mirth,  there  was  something  pla- 
cating about  Phoebe's  manner.  And  as,  just  within 
the  door,  Mr.  Martin  drew  off  his  greatcoat,  she 
suddenly  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck;  kissed  him 
again  and  again;  kissed  him  with  a  gentle  tender- 
ness, very  different  from  the  bear-hugs  to  which  usu- 
ally she  submitted  him.  In  the  living-room,  "  Well, 


300  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  greeted  him  placidly,  "  you 
did  make  it,  didn't  you  ?  I  knew  you  would." 

After  forty  years  of  marriage,  Mr.  Martin  had 
accustomed  himself  to  the  ease  with  which  women 
accept  sudden,  revolutionary  office-adjustments.  He 
did  not  debate  now.  "Hello,  Ern!  Tug!"  he 
greeted  his  son,  and  son-in-law  and,  to  the  pink 
vision  between  them,  "  Sylvia,  my  dear,  how  pretty 
you  look.  I  gather  from  the  racket  upstairs  that  we 
are  here  in  force.  Where's  BertKa-Elizabeth?  " 

"  She'll  be  here  soon,"  Phoebe  answered.  Her  air 
of  suppressed  excitement  seemed  suddenly  to  burst 
before  their  eyes.  She  darted  into  the  hall  and  pro- 
duced a  series  of  deep  reverberant  summonses  from 
the  Chinese  gong  suspended  there.  Instantly  the 
pandemonium  above  broke  into  the  staccato  of  a  rush 
for  the  stairs.  The  grandchildren  came  filing  down. 

Mr.  Martin  eyed  the  gala  procession.  "  Where's 
Bertha-Elizabeth?  "  he  again  demanded. 

"  Oh,  she'll  be  here  in  a  moment,"  Phoebe  replied 
evasively;  but  still  visibly  she  boiled  with  excitement. 

"  Mother,  you're  to  sit  here.  Bertha-Elizabeth  is 
at  the  head  of  the  table.  Father,  you  are  on  her  right 
and  Ernest  is  at  her  left.  Sylvia,  you're  to  be  on  one 
side  of  Hope  and  mother  on  the  other.  You  two  are 
to  keep  her  in  order,  if  you  can.  Now,  youngsters, 
run  around  the  table  and  find  where  your  names  are 
written." 


HOW  IT  CAME  301 

The  tramping  of  adolescent  feet;  the  pattering  of 
baby-steps;  the  questions  and  answers;  the  scraping 
of  the  chairs  died  into  silence. 

"Now,  Bertha-Elizabeth!"  Phoebe  called  into 
that  silence. 

There  came  a  sound  of  swift  footsteps  in  the  hall. 
A  girl  appeared  in  the  doorway;  a  young  girl,  and  a 
slim  one.  Her  little  face,  lighted  by  big,  very  seri- 
ous, blue-gray  eyes  and  colored  by  a  big,  very  serious 
deep-pink  mouth,  showed  a  kind  of  angelic  angular- 
ity. She  wore  a  yellow  evening-gown,  high-lustered 
and  floating.  At  the  top,  it  scooped  out  delicate  cres- 
cents of  her  slim  neck  and  her  slim  back.  At  the 
bottom,  it  not  only  touched  the  ground;  but  actually 
lay  on  it  in  little  ripples  of  silky  light.  It  made  her 
very  tall,  that  long  dress;  and  as  though  to  supple- 
ment it,  her  amber-brown  hair — almost  but  not  quite 
straight — had  been  drawn  in  a  thick  coiled  mass  to 
the  very  top  of  her  head. 

Bertha-Elizabeth  stood  very  still  in  the  doorway. 
She  looked  straight  into  her  grandfather's  eyes.  Her 
lips  smiled,  but  her  eyes  questioned.  After  their  first 
glance  at  her,  Mrs.  Martin  and  Phoebe  turned  to 
watch  the  effect  on  him. 

Mr.  Martin  stared,  stupefied,  an  instant.  Then 
suddenly  that  stupefaction  changed  to  a  smile  of 
delight.  "Who  is  this  woman ?"  he  demanded  of 
his  daughter.  l 


302  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

Bertha-Elizabeth  did  not  wait  for  Phoebe's  an- 
swer. She  ran  to  Mr.  Martin's  side,  threw  her  arms 
around  his  neck.  "  Do  you  like  my  gown,  grandpa  ?  " 
she  demanded  breathlessly.  "  And  my  hair?  " 

"I  think  it's  great!"  Mr.  Martin  answered, 
"  and  very  becoming.  And  your  hair  looks  as  pretty 
as  it  can  look.  My  eye,  I  had  no  idea  you  were  so 
tall !  And  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  have  you 
a  grown  woman  at  last.  Now  we  can  go  off  on  some 
real  sprees  together." 

"  Oh,  Father  Martin !  "  Phoebe  remonstrated. 
"Are  you  going  to  keep  surprising  me,  too?  As 
though  it  weren't  enough  to  have  Mother  Martin  all 
the  time  flashing  something  I  didn't  expect.  I  thought 
you  were  going  to  make  an  awful  fuss  because  I'd  put 
Bertha-Elizabeth  in  a  long  gown.  You  certainly 
raised  enough  row  when  I  wore  my  first  long  dress." 

"Did  I?"  Mr.  Martin  asked. 

"  Did  you!  "  Phoebe  made  a  little  clucking  sound 
in  her  throat.  "Edward  C.  Martin,  I  repudiate 
you.  You've  forgotten  all  about  me.  It's  just  as 
though  you  had  never  had  me  at  all.  You've  let 
Bertha-Elizabeth  fill  my  place  entirely." 

"Well,  didn't  you  put  Tug  in  my  place?"  Mr. 
Martin  demanded  acutely. 

"  I  guess  I  sorta  did,"  Phoebe  admitted.  "  And 
now  look  at  me!  Watch  him  bringing  my  gray 
hairs,  with  wrinkles,  to  a  speedy  grave." 


HOW  IT  CAME  303 

"  I  must  confess,  Edward/'  Mrs.  Martin  said  on 
their  way  home,  "  that  you  really  surprised  me  to- 
night. I  felt  as  though  you  actually  liked  Bertha- 
Elizabeth  being  grown  up." 

"  I  do,"  Mr.  Martin  answered  promptly. 

"  Well  now,  why?  "  There  was  a  note  of  irrita- 
tion in  Mrs.  Martin's  voice. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  why,"  Mr.  Martin  replied 
vaguely.  "  You  never  can  tell  the  reason  for  these 
things.  All  I  know  is  that  I  feel  that  way." 

"  You  certainly  are  different  from  me,"  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin said  in  a  tone  slightly  disapproving.  "  Why,  when 
I  went  over  there  early  this  afternoon  and  saw  that 
child  grown  into  a  woman,  right  before  my  eyes,  as 
you  might  say,  I  burst  out  crying.  I  wouldn't  have 
done  it  for  anything,  if  I'd  had  a  chance  to  think, 
because  it  made  Phoebe  cry,  too.  And  the  two  of  us, 
carrying  on  like  that,  frightened  Bertha-Elizabeth 
almost  to  death.  The  first  thing  i  knew  she  was 
crying  too.  And  all  the  time  I  was  worrying  about 
you  coming  in  and  finding  her  in  that  long  skirt  and 
with  her  hair  done  up.  Phoebe  was  determined  to 
surprise  you.  I  begged  her  not  to.  But  she  would  do 
it.  It  shows  that,  in  some  ways,  she  knows  you  better 
than  I  do.  I  argued  with  her.  I  told  her  that  I  was 
absolutely  sure  it  would  spoil  your  evening.  Why, 
Edward,  when  I  saw  your  eyes  light  up  the  way  they 
did,  I  could  have  beaten  you." 


304  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

14  Well,  I'm  sorry,"  Mr.  Martin  said  with  a  touch 
of  satire,  "  that  I  didn't  break  down  and  sob — if 
that's  what  you  women  expected  of  me." 

But  if  Mr.  Martin  were  in  any  real  doubt  in  regard 
to  his  psychological  condition,  he  did  not  long  main- 
tain that  state  of  mind.  The  clearing-up  process 
was,  however,  a  subtle  and  complex  business.  But 
although  for  several  days  it  occupied  all  his  mental 
leisure,  he  never  spoke  of  the  matter  to  Phoebe;  he 
never  spoke  of  it  to  his  wife.  Those  two  were  always 
teasing  him  by  asserting  that  Bertha-Elizabeth  was 
his  favorite  grandchild.  He  had  always  denied  this 
accusation  stoutly.  Nevertheless  it  was  true. 
Bertha-Elizabeth  was  the  first  grandchild.  That 
was  not  the  whole,  nor  the  main  reason  why  she 
held  her  special  place  in  his  heart.  The  real  reason 
was  that  he  thought  he  saw  in  her  all  he  loved 
most  in  both  his  wife  and  his  daughter.  Bertha- 
Elizabeth  had  much  of  Mrs.  Martin's  steady 
seriousness  of  character.  She  had  much  of 
Phoebe's  vibrant  radiance  of  spirit.  But  Mrs. 
Martin's  beautiful  seriousness  was,  in  Bertha- 
Elizabeth,  transfused  by  a  quick,  avid  intelligence. 
And  Phoebe's  flamboyant  radiance  was,  in  Bertha- 
Elizabeth,  toned  to  a  fine,  still  luster.  All  the  sixteen 
years  that  Bertha-Elizabeth  had  been  growing  up, 
Mr.  Martin  had  had  the  feeling  that  he  was  seeing 


HOW  IT  CAME  305 

not  only  his  daughter's  girlhood  (the  history  of  which 
was  written  in  letters  of  fire  on  his  heart)  but  his 
wife's  girlhood  (which  was  all  mystery  and  conjec- 
ture to  him).  Now  Bertha-Elizabeth  had  reached 
the  exact  point  where  his  friendship  with  the  lovely 
girl,  who  had  been  Bertha  Brooks  and  was  now  a 
wife  of  more  than  forty  years,  had  begun.  Now 
Bertha-Elizabeth  had  reached  the  exact  point  where 
his  intimacy  with  the  adorable  being,  who  had  been 
Phoebe  Martin  and  was  now  a  daughter  of  almost 
forty  years,  had  raised  to  its  sweetest  level.  In 
Bertha-Elizabeth's  future,  he  would  watch  the  devel- 
opment, in  duplicate,  of  these  two  beautiful  girlish 
eras. 

A  few  days  later  Mrs.  Martin  strolled  over  to  her 
son's  house  to  make  one  of  her  rare  calls.  The  door 
was  open.  Maggie,  rubbing  vigorously,  was  shining 
its  brightwork. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Martin,"  she  apprised  the  caller  re- 
gretfully, "  Mrs.  Martin  ain't  in.  She'll  be  turrible 
sorry  to  miss  you." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sorry  too,  Maggie  !  "  Mrs.  Martin  said. 
:<  Is  she  coming  back  soon  or  is  she  gone  for  the 
afternoon?  " 

"  She  said  she  wouldn't  be  back  until  six,"  Maggie 
replied.  "  She's  just  after  leaving.  She's  gone  over 
to  Mrs.  Parker's.  She  took  the  three  little  girls  with 


306  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

her.    You  go  right  in,  Mrs.  Martin,  and  make  your- 
self at  home." 

"  I  guess  I  will  sit  down  for  a  while,  Maggie," 
Mrs.  Martin  agreed.  "  I  feel  a  little  tired." 

"  I'll  folly  you  in  a  minute  and  make  you  a  cup  of 
tea,"  Maggie  promised  in  friendly  Irish  fashion. 
"  That'll  fix  you !" 

"  All  right,"  Mrs.  Martin  approved.  "  Tea  will 
taste  good,  Maggie.  Where  are  the  twins?" 

"  Upstairs,"  Maggie  replied,  "  and  up  to  some 
divilment  to  be  sure.  Why'd  they  be  staying  in  the 
house,  if  they  was  up  to  any  good?  They  gave  me 
my  orders  not  to  come  upstairs  for  one  hour  and  I'll 
folly  them  orders,  believe  me.  They  ain't  over  and 
above  carrying  me  downstairs  if  they  don't  want  me 
there.  The  strong  young  divils  that  they  are. 
They're  almost  grown  men.  But  perhaps  they'll 
leave  you  come  up  though." 

One  of  the  twins  interrupted  from  above.  u  That 
you,  grandma?  "  he  called.  "  Come  right  up!  Ed- 
ward's here  with  me.  We're  going  to  tell  you  a 
secret.  But  you've  got  to  promise  that  you  won't 
give  us  away  to  father  or  mother !  Promise  first!  " 

The  two  ruddy,  olive-dark  faces,  bursting  with 
a  plum-like  color  in  cheeks  noticeably  downy,  and 
illuminated  by  large,  clearly-glittering  gray  eyes, 
hung  for  a  mischievous  interval  over  the  banister. 

"  I  promise,"  Mrs.  Martin  agreed  recklessly. 


HOW  IT  CAME  307 

The  faces  disappeared.  Mrs.  Martin  went  up  the 
stairs. 

"  In  the  bathroom/'  Gordon's  voice  called.  Mrs. 
Martin  followed  its  clear  trail.  It  led  her  to  an  open 
doorway. 

The  twins  had  dragged  a  big  table  into  the  middle 
of  the  room.  On  it  lay  instruments  of  a  shining  famil- 
iarity. As  she  gazed  astounded,  Edward  lathered  his 
face  with  four  slashing  strokes  of  the  brush.  Ex- 
pertly enough,  Gordon  was  slapping  the  razor  over 
his  father's  strop. 

"  Grandma,"  Edward  said  in  the  tone  of  blague 
which  prevailed  to  the  finest  ramification  in  the  Mar- 
tin family,  "  it's  your  privilege  to  be  present  at  a 
great  historical  event — our  first  shave." 

When  Mr.  Martin  arrived  home  that  night,  his 
wife  met  him  at  the  door. 

"What  makes  your  eyes  shine  so,  Bertha?"  he 
demanded. 

Mrs.  Martin  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  She 
linked  her  arm  with  her  husband's;  clung  to  him  as 
they  walked  into  the  dining-room.  "  Edward,  what 
do  you  suppose  happened  to  me  today?  " 

"  Somebody  left  you  a  million  dollars,"  Mr.  Mar- 
tin guessed. 

"  Much  more  thrilling  than  that,"  Mrs.  Martin 
said  with  one  of  her  unexpected  touches  of  humor. 


3o8  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Shoot!  "  Mr.  Martin  adjured.  "  Put  me  out  of 
my  misery." 

"  I  sat  in  the  bathroom  with  Gordon  and  Edward 
this  afternoon — and  by  special  invitation,  mind  you 
— while  they  shaved  themselves  for  the  first  time." 

Mr.  Martin  bore  this  revelation  with  a  becoming 
fortitude.  In  fact,  he  only  grunted. 

u  Edward,  I  can't  tell  you  how  excited  I  was  about 
it.  It  sort  of — if  you  understand  what  I  mean — 
thrilled  me.  I  don't  understand  why — I  really  don't. 
Why,  when  Ernie  shaved  for  the  first  time,  I  cried 
all  night  long  because  I  thought  I'd  lost  my  little 
boy." 

"Did  you?"  Mr.  Martin  unconcernedly  asked. 
"  I  don't  remember." 

"Well,  I  do!"  A  touch  of  grimness  tautened 
Mrs.  Martin's  voice.  u  And  the  strange  part  of  it 
all  is  that  I've  had  a  sort  of  reawakening  of  that  old 
pain  all  day  long.  And  yet  I  didn't  feel  the  least  bit 
like  that  about  Gordon  and  Edward.  It  was  all  so 
queer.  Ernie  shaved  the  first  time  in  secret.  I  just 
found  it  out  by  accident.  He'd  have  died  if  he'd 
known  I  saw  him.  And  I  never  told  him  I  did.  But 
the  twins  didn't  mind  me  at  all.  They  only  made 
me  promise  not  to  tell  their  mother.  It's  different 
being  a  grandmother  from  being  a  mother.  Some- 
how I  think  they  trust  you  more." 

"  Of  course  they  do !  "   Mr.   Martin  said  with 


HOW  IT  CAME  309 

fervor.     "  Why,   Bertha-Elizabeth  tells  me  things 

that  she  never  tells "    He  stopped. 

"  Oh,  you  two!  "  Mrs.  Martin  exclaimed  with  a 
great  deal  of  mock  indignation  and  a  tiny  percentage 
of  real  jealousy.  "  How  fine  you  feel  with  all  your 
secret  understandings !  But  do  you  know,  Edward," 
she  reverted  to  her  own  experience,  "  I  didn't  have  a 
single  feeling  of  sadness  about  the  twins  growing  up. 
It  gave  me  the  greatest  sense  of  joy.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  I  don't  feel  wholly  responsible  for  them. 
And  then  the  thought  of  them  being  able  to  take  care 
of  themselves — and  carrying  the  line  on — I  don't 
know  how  to  explain  it,  but  it  was  as  though  it 
lengthened  my  life — my  life  and  your  life — as  though 
we'd  achieved  something — something  that  was  beau- 
tiful and  complete." 

"  Edward,"  Mrs.  Martin  broke  into  her  husband's 
reading  just  before  they  were  going  to  bed,  u  do  you 
remember  what  I  said  to  you  the  other  day  about 
making  that  leap  from  middle  age  to  old  age?" 

Mr.  Martin  nodded. 

"  Well,  today  when  I  watched  those  boys  shaving, 
I  suddenly  had  a  sort  of  revelation.  Why,  Edward !  " 
She  paused.  Then  in  a  voice  that  lowered  and 
rounded,  she  said,  "  This  is  old  age." 

Mr.  Martin  did  not  seem  surprised.  But  he  did 
not  speak.  He  smiled  across  the  table  at  her. 


3io  THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

"  Yes,  this  is  old  age !  "  Mrs.  Martin  had  not 
extracted  all  the  glory  from  her  revelation.  "  This 
beautiful  world,  surrounded  by  young,  growing 
things,  children  and  grandchildren — living  a  life 
more  busy  and  useful  in  some  ways  than  the  life  of 
our  youth — this  is  old  age." 

Tears  arose  in  Mr.  Martin's  eyes.  They  did  not 
dim  his  smile,  though.  By  a  kind  of  magic  they 
seemed  to  deepen  it. 

"  Yes,  Bertha,  this  is  old  age.  Or  it  is  what  we 
thought  was  old  age.  What  is  old  age  anyway?  The 
trouble  with  the  world  is  that  it  has  always  accepted 
youth's  definition.  But  I'm  wondering  about  that. 
Sometimes  I  think  the  supreme  revelation  of  life  is 
that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  old  age.  Sometimes 
1  think  we  ought  to  call  it  young  age." 


NOTABLE  NEW  FICTION 


THE  HAPPY  YEARS 

BY  INEZ  HAYNES   IRWIN 

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happened  to  Phoebe  and  Ernest  when  they  grew  up.  We  here 
see  each  of  them  married,  with  children  of  their  own,  and  with 
delightful  friends,  and  perhaps  the  happiest  of  all  are  grand- 
father and  grandmother  Martin.  The  life  of  them  all  is  rich 
with  responsibility,  friendship,  love,  sorrow  and  happiness. 

COLAS  BREUGNON 

BY  ROMAIN   ROLLAND 

Translated  by  KATHARINE  MILLER.    Probable  price,  $1.60  net. 

The  first  novel  by  this  author  since  his  famous  Jean- 
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Forever,"  and  this  mediaeval  Burgundian  lover,  fighter, 
sculptor  and  artist  at  life  is  full  of  contagious  gaiety. 

THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

BY  WILLIAM   DE  MORGAN 

Author  ~of  "Joseph  Vance,"  "  Somehow  Good,"  etc. 

Dr.  Carteret  goes  to  look  over  a  house  that  had  once  been 
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BY  MARION  BOWER  AND   LEON  M.   LION 

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worldlings,  a  Chinese  Ambassador,  wise,  loyal,  and  finally—? 
There  is  a  secret  treaty,  crime,  intrigue  and  sparkling  talk. 
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JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

By  ROMAIN  ROLLAND 

Translated  from  the  French  by  GILBERT  CANNAN.  In 
three  volumes,  each  $2.00. 

This  great  trilogy,  the  life  story  of  a  musician,  at  first 
the  sensation  of  musical  circles  in  Paris,  has  come  to  be  one 
of  the  most  discussed  books  among  literary  circles  in  France, 
England  and  America. 

Each  volume  of  the  American  edition  has  its  own  indi- 
vidual interest,  can  be  understood  without  the  other,  and 
comes  to  a  definite  conclusion. 

The  three  volumes  with  the  titles  of  the  French  volumes 
included  are: 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 
DAWN — MORNING — YOUTH — REVOLT 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 
THE  MARKET  PLACE— ANTOINETTE—THE  HOUSE 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:  JOURNEY'S  END 

Lovi    AND    FRIENDSHIP— THE    BURNING    BUSH— THE    NEW 
DAWN 

Some  Noteworthy  Comments 

'*  'Hats  off,  gentlemen — a  genius.'  .  One  may  mention  'Jean-Chris- 
tophe'  in  the  same  breath  with  Balzac's  'Lost  Illusions';  it  is  as  big 
as  that.  .  It  is  moderate  praise  to  call  it  with  Edmund  Gosse  'the 
noblest  work  of  fiction  of  the  twentieth  century.'  .  A  book  as 
big,  as  elemental,  as  original  as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  to- 
day. .  We  have  nothing  comparable  in  English  literature.  .  "— 
Springfield  Republican. 

"If  a  man  wishes  to  understand  those  devious  currents  which  make 
tip  the  great,  changing  sea  of  modern  life,  there  is  hardly  a  single 
book  more  illustrative,  more  informing  and  more  inspiring.  — Current 
Opinion, 

"Must  rank  as  one  of  the  very  few  important  works  of  fiction  of  the 
last  decade.  A  vital  compelling  work.  We  who  love  it  feel  that  it 
will  live." — Independent. 

"The  most  momentous  novel  that  has  come  to  us  from  France,  or 
from  any  other  European  country,  in  a  decade." — Boston  Transcript, 

A  32-page  booklet  about  Romain  Holland  and  Jean-Chris- 
tophe,  with  portraits  and  complete  reviews,  on  request. 

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CONTRASTED  FICTION 


FIRECRACKER  JANE    BY  ALICE  CALHOUN  HAINES 

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vivid  and  colorful  .  .  .  tense  drama."  . 

Son  Francisco  Chronicle:  "A  breathless  romance  fascinatingly  told.' 

MARTIN   SCHULER  BY  ROMER  WILSON 

Thi*  romance  of  a  musical  genius  has  become  "  an  international 
sensation."  "  A  book  among  books  in  a  season  of  few  really  fine 
novels,"  says  The  Philadelphia  Press.  "Has  an  imagination  com- 
pelling quality."— The  New  York  Tribune.  And  "  Very  close  to  great- 
ness as  a  creation  of  art."— The  Boston  Transcript.  "  Tire  most 
remarkable,  analytical  novel  ever  written  by  an  English  woman,'  says 
The  Westminster  Gazette,  (Eng.).  "  A  surprising,  disconcerting,  *n- 
triguing,  but  certainly  convincing  work  of  real  imagination." — London 
Times.  ($1.50  net.) 


AN  ETHIOPIAN  SAGA 


BY  RICHMOND  HAIG 


Full 


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of  battle — and  of  humor.    $1.30  net. 

N.  Y.  Evg.  Sun :  "  Truly  Homeric  echoes  .   .   .  not  devoid  of  humor."1 

Boston   Transcript:  "  Original  and   powerful." 

London  Times:  "Extremely  interesting  ...  he  deserves  much 
thanks." 

WHILE  THERE'S   LIFE       BY  ELINOR  MORDAUN* 

The  romance  of  a  wealthy  middle-aged  Englishman  who 
dropped  out  of  sight — and  found  happiness.  Known  in  Eng- 
land as  "  The  Processionals."  $1.50  net. 

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and  sees  it  whole  .  .  .  tact,  humor  and — but  that  goes  without  say- 
ing— imagination." 


BY   THOMAS  BURKE 
NIGHTS  IN  LONDON  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

4th  printing.    $1.50  net.  $1.40  net. 


New  York  Tribune :  "  Wonder- 
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born  writer  of  originality  and 
charm.  Each  page  is  steeped  in 
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of  nearly  sixty  of  these  little  theatres,  including  something  of 
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Richard  Burton's  BERNARD  SHAW:  The  Man  and  the  Mask 

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PLAYS  AND  PAGEANTS  FOR  YOUNG  FOLKS 

PATRIOTIC  PLAYS  AND  PAGEANTS 

By  JOSEPHINE  THORP  and  ROSAMOND  KIMBALL 
Directions   for  costuming,   settmg,  and  music  clearly  pre- 
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CHRISTMAS  CANDLES 

By  ELSIE  HOBART  CARTER 

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SHORT  PLAYS  ABOUT  FAMOUS  AUTHORS 

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their  periods. 

LAFAYETTE;  COLUMBUS;  THE  LONG  KNIVES  IN 

ILLINOIS 
By  ALICE  J.  WALKER 

A  volume  of  three  historical  plays  which  make  a  strong 
appeal  to  patriotism  and  which  children  have  enjoyed  acting. 

UTTLE  PLAYS  FROM  AMERICAN  HISTORY  FOR 
YOUNG  FOLKS 

By  ALICE  J.  WALKER 

Three  plays  of  Colonial,  Revolutionary  and  Civil  War  days 
respectively,  which  have  stood  the  test  of  actual  production  in 
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HOUSE  OF  THE  HEART 

By  CONSTANCE  D'ARCY  MACKAY 

A  charming  collection  of  children's  plays  from  the  best 
work  of  this  very  able  writer. 

THE  SILVER  THREAD,  AND  OTHER  PLAYS 

By  CONSTANCE  D'ARCY  MACKAY 

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nerian  Drama"  " How  to  Listen  to  Music"  etc. 


CHAPTERS  OF  OPERA 

With  70  portraits  and  pictures  of  Opera  Houses.     $3.00 

The  first  seven  chapters  deal  with  the  earliest  operatic  per- 
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of  the  first  quarter-century  of  the  Metropolitan,  1883-1908,  in^ 
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opening  of  Oscar  Hammerstein's  Manhattan  Opera  House  and 
the  first  two  seasons  therein,  1906-08. 

"  Most  complete  and  authoritative  .  .  .  pre-eminently  the 
man  to  write  the  book  .  .  .  full  of  the  spirit  of  discerning 
criticism.  .  .  .  Delightfully  engaging  manner,  with  humor, 
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MORE  CHAPTERS  OF  OPERA 

1908-1918 

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$3.50 

The  decade  here  covered  included  Hammerstein's  struggle 
in  New  York,  Philadelphia,  and  London,  his  defeat  but  last- 
ing influence,  partly  through  the  Chicago  Opera  Company,  the 
commencement  of  Gatti-Casazza's  long  reign  at  the  Metropoli- 
tan; the  failures  of  the  Opera  Lyrique  at  the  New  Theatre, 
and  later  of  the  Century  Opera's  two  noteworthy  seasons 
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ica of  Puccini,  Humperdinck,  Galli-Curci,  Toscanini,  etc. 

There  are  also  interesting  excursions  into  such  matters  as 
"A  Critic's  Duty  to  His  Art,"  "Translations,"  "The  Rus- 
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War  on  Concerts  as  Well  as  on  Opera,"  etc.,  etc. 

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